Ouroboros Complex
by Serendipity1
Summary: The loss of a brother splits the family apart. Years later, the old ghosts come creeping back in a form they'd never imagined. How long can family connections last? How far? The turtles find that the past doesn't stay buried, and some things never die.
1. the fall

**Ouroboros Complex**

**By: **Serendipity

**Prologue: **_the fall_

_Time may be on my side  
But it's mostly far behind  
I was the apple of your eye  
Now I'm the boy spinning on a wheel there  
Stuck with knives  
Last night I lived more than one thousand lives  
Not one of them survived_

"**Nearly Beloved," The Wallflowers**

* * *

This was the way it ended. In a back room underneath a government facility miles and miles away from the city, from their home, and three of them waiting for the shoe to drop without really understanding what it would mean.

Donatello had the door to the room pushed open- finally. It had been locked with a series of the sort of impressively advanced technology Bishop had used when it was really important, a contrast to the drab, dingy, ordinary look this place had on its upper levels. They had taken some time to disarm, most of them needed careful dismantling, and the normal deadbolts had needed breaking. All as quietly as possible, since none of them wanted a confrontation. Not when they might have a wounded or incapacitated brother to take with them.

That was what they'd thought. Or hoped.

(_maybe too much to hope. two weeks wasn't long, but it was enough. it was more than enough_.)

He'd watched as Donatello broke the deadbolts as carefully as he could manage, as he pushed the door open…and stood rigid and frozen in the frame. His hand tightened on the door handle hard enough to make it crack, almost snapping it from its place.

It was strange, at first. Nothing looked unusual about the room. Bright white light spilled out of the doorway, and an assortment of the typical laboratory equipment was clearly in view. Leonardo paid it no attention for the moment, the light was too bright for him to make anything out clearly. He concentrated instead on Donatello, who still wasn't moving, whose arms were braced against the doorframe as if it was all that was holding him up. Who looked as if the world had just crumbled into pieces before him.

"What?" Leonardo grabbed his shoulder, shook him, "Don. What?" Then his eyes adjusted to the brightness and he noticed the table. Cold metal, thick leather straps, and a dark shape strapped to the gurney. Strips of something dark and thin and fabric-like peeled and pinned into place. Glistening white and slick reds and pinks.

At first he didn't even know what he was looking at. His mind couldn't make sense of it. When he finally realized what it was, he choked, his stomach clenching and rebelling. He staggered against the door.

"What? What the hell's wrong with you guys?"

Raphael, behind them, who couldn't see into the room.

"Don? Leo? Leo!"

White bone. The red of exposed tissue, the ropy texture of muscle and veins. Dark, flat blocks of carapace, neatly severed from the shell. From this distance and the position of the body, he couldn't see the midsection where the plastron would be, but he could see the pale pieces of it lying neatly on the table near the gurney. There was no blood, not on the floor or on the body. Dimly, he supposed it must have been cleaned away. It was a lab, after all.

There was a strange sense of disconnection to seeing his brother lying cut up and limp, lights shining on his body like it was nothing. Like _he'd_ been nothing.

"Leo, what the fuck is going on?" Raphael's voice was rising in anger behind him and he couldn't move or speak to give him an answer, "Don, what is it? What do you see? Don! _Goddammit_, answer me, you bastard-" he trailed off into cursing, his voice rising on the edge of rage and desperation.

Donatello moved like a sleepwalker, or a zombie: graceless, heavy, his movements slow and cumbersome. He looked like someone in a waking dream (_a waking nightmare_) as he approached the table. Leonardo watched him take three shaky steps, four, and then he stopped not a foot from the table, unable to go further.

"It's him," he said. It was spoken quietly enough that it might not even have been meant for anyone else to hear. It probably wasn't. It wasn't like they needed proof of identity. The words fell into the silence like lead, snapping something in his chest. The finality stung him worse than the image of his body.

Donatello reached out a hand towards the body on the gurney, then quickly whirled around as Raphael let out an angry growl and tried to push his way through the door, and his expression reflected his sense of panic. His need to hide this sight from their most emotional, most passionately sensitive brother.

"No, Raph!" he said, flinging his hand out as if it could stop him, "Don't come in here! You don't want to- don't!" That wasn't a request, or an order. It was a frantic, half-wild plea.

Raphael ignored him, now desperately shoving at Leonardo, pushing and clawing and fighting his way in. Leonardo pushed him back without thinking, still in a clouded sense of non-time, still trying to get his bearings. He got an elbow in his face for the trouble, but managed to trip Raphael up in time to keep him from getting into the room.

The blow to the face did wonders for his sense of focus, though. Ironic, really.

"No," Don was screaming, his voice choked and torn, "Don't let him see! Don't let Raph see!" and Leonardo grabbed his flailing brother, pushing him back from the door, trying to keep his arms down, ignoring the roaring in his ears that had nothing to do with the sound here. Beyond him, he heard alarms, the faintest beginning of the sound of pounding footsteps coming their way. None of it seemed to matter at the moment, not with Raphael struggling against his arms, cursing and fever-warm with exertion and very much alive, and Michelangelo…

Donatello hurried over to them, trying to help restrain the brother who could handle this the least, but Raphael kicked them back and shot through their grip. Straight into the room, straight to the table. Donatello lay where he'd fallen, all the fight gone from him.

"Mikey."

Leonardo remembered Raphael in front of the body, staring at it like it was hiding his brother from sight. He'd said his name dumbly at first, slowly, and then in a shout of denial. "No! Mikey!" Donatello curling his hand into a fist, his face turned against his arm. Flashes of light, flashes of sound. Time moving faster than it rightfully should. He remembered Raphael screaming, yelling, denying this.

God, he still remembered his _screams_.

The noises Raphael made hadn't even sounded sane. They were wild, animal, desperate. His voice finally broke at the end into a choked sob, a sound made awful for its lack of any hope.

"MIKEY!"

But Michelangelo was dead.


	2. letters from the wasteland

**Ouroboros Complex**

**By: **Serendipity

**Chapter One: **_letters from the wasteland_

_

* * *

_

_On the waydown they saw a lot they don't remember  
and if you asked them how, they couldn't say how they got there  
and if you want them now you could just pull on the lever  
and say, "I'm hung up on gravity."_

"**The Waydown", Modest Mouse**

**

* * *

**

The passage of time after a death really wasn't relevant to the impact that death had left. Really, the idea of time healing all wounds seemed to more or less imply that time was like water, and pain like a blood stain. Or a drop of dye, if one wanted to be use a less morbid metaphor. The more water, the more the stain was meant to thin out and dissipate, edging thin tendrils outwards, fading lighter and lighter until, at one point, the stain ended completely. At an untraceable point, where red left behind clear, pristine water and sadness cut completely into calm.

But look at that, years passed and the stain remained. To be honest, they were never very good at letting go of the past. Maybe that was the whole problem with trying to move on.

It was a hopeless cause to begin with, but those were the sort they latched on to, anyway.

So, there it was. Four members of the family left after their brother was murdered.

They were what they were because of an old grievance. Their family was never the kind to let a tragedy go unpunished, and so, they made plans for vengeance.

They failed, and the three remaining members of their clan fled the battle, their father's death at their heels.

Raphael left shortly after, to no one's great surprise. It felt like there was a clock winding down the minutes to their last hour, counting off each individual loss.

And then there were two.

* * *

Six PM.

A red light flashed on the display where Donatello kept his security system information, signaling in intermittent flashes, and its shrill beeping broke the silence of their Lair. It was an almost leadenly complete silence. He was doing nothing but paperwork and Leonardo was practically a statue, tucked away into the usual corner with his legs folded and his eyes shut, meditating as tea light candles flickered in their glass bowls around him.

Donatello, absentmindedly going over some calculations, paid his brother little mind as he leaned over to flick the switch that would turn on the monitor for a visual.

Business as usual.

Now it was just the two of them. Funny how much of a difference fifteen years made, especially when they were riddled so thoroughly with battles, with strife, with deaths of loved ones.

It left them in a smaller pocket of the sewer, him working on keeping them protected and Leo sinking into his ninjutsu and meditation like it would keep him aloft and stable. Raphael was probably a Hell's Angel in some remote part of the country, if he was even _in_ the country, and as for Michelangelo…well. Neither of them really liked revisiting that piece of history, no matter how crucial it was to their current state.

The monitor flickered to life with a burst of static followed by the indistinct image of a shadow, human-shaped, human-sized, touching the wall that should open up to the old Lair they left behind. No details were decipherable from the visual and its blurry, grainy quality, but there was definitely an intruder and it was definitely aware that something was behind that wall. The door was camouflaged to seem utterly indistinguishable from any normal sewer wall to passerby, so if that human was so entranced by it, he clearly had some information he shouldn't have. Fortunately, this particular intruder, or whoever it was who gave him his info, was behind the times.

"Is there a problem?" Leonardo's voice was startlingly close to his ear. True to perfect ninja form, his brother seemed to like crossing entire rooms in utter silence in the time span of mere seconds. Donatello, used to it all by now, hardly flinched.

"Someone found our old location," he said, and made a gesture at the screen. The shadow moved its hands over the wall one last, futile time, and then began to move away. Donatello charted the paths it might be taking as he watched it- a right turn this way, or a side tunnel, or follow the main route all the way to a certain area, perhaps at that junction where one sewer main diverged.

Behind him, Leonardo tossed him his bo staff and he caught it thoughtlessly, without bothering to glance up. Adjusting his grip on the smooth wood, he reached back to slide the weapon in place. Automatic motion. He grabbed the duffle bag from under his desk and hoisted it onto his shoulder, adjusting it with care.

Leonardo was already walking in his smooth, measured glide towards the door. They couldn't very well afford to let any suspicious activity go by unchecked now, especially if it involved their old living quarters.

Although their old lair had gone unlived-in for at least ten years, Donatello had still kept up all the old security systems as far as surveillance went. Several other tunnels in the sewers were given the same treatment, most of them leading either to their home or their old home. They required constant upkeep, but were quite effective at tracking intruders. And if they needed extra care, well, it wasn't like he didn't have the time. They didn't go aboveground much anymore, and they tended to pick their battles with much more care than they ever had before.

Part of it, he supposed, came with growing older and gaining perspective. The rest had nothing to do with gaining and everything to do with its opposite.

"Even with the night vision activated, the quality of the images from those surveillance cameras isn't too good," Donatello said as they headed out for the location. "I'll look over the footage later to see if there's a clearer salvageable image. Any guesses on who the mystery man might be?"

In all honesty, whoever it was he'd seen on the monitor screen would be long gone by the time they arrived, given the relative distance from one lair to the next. They didn't stay close to their old home out of sheer practicality. It was tactically sound to move a considerable distance away instead of staying nearby, especially since they had reasons to suspect their location was known to a couple enemies. Well, one in particular.

"No one just 'wanders by' an area as remote as that," Leonardo said, "And it's not easily accessible. So it's unlikely that we caught someone just wandering the sewer system for kicks."

Leonardo had a certain amount of distaste in his tone whenever he referred to the handful of people who liked exploring sewer systems for fun. It was understandable, since they were definitely a security risk, but Donatello also thought there was some kind of territorial thought in there as well. The humans could live aboveground and go anywhere they pleased, so why did they have to invade the small piece of the city that belonged (_technically, if not legally_,) to them? It wasn't so much resentment of the humans' freedom so much as a need to secure their own.

"He seemed to be inspecting the wall for something," Donatello mentioned.

There was a small section of the wall that was also camouflaged to appear to be part of the concrete and brick that formed the walls. Beneath it hid the keypad for the number code that opened the door lock. Someone sliding their hands over that area of the wall made it almost a given that they were looking for any hidden compartments or mechanisms there. He watched Leonardo's eyes narrow as he took that information in.

"Of course," he added, "It was a pump station before it was our home, so it's entirely possible that they sent a worker out to inspect it." _Possible_, but unlikely. The place had clearly stood abandoned long before they'd made it their home, but it was good to factor in all possibilities. "And none of our enemies have actively sought us out for some time. Especially since we've made the standing truce with Karai."

Leonardo folded his arms. On anyone else it was defensive body language, but the gesture only made his brother seem go inward more, not self-protective so much as internally focused. "Mm," he said, a soft sound of assent. "Still. There are always dissenters."

Oh, yes. They'd killed too many Foot for there not to be members of that organization who wanted them dead, whether for honor, personal vendetta, or just plain vindictiveness. But Karai kept a stranglehold on her minions, as much as her father had. (_One of the only good things that the Shredder had taught her_.) If someone was slipping out of line, she tended to crush them fairly quickly. Then again, this could be a more subtle rebel than most.

"You'd think they'd be more careful, though, if they were ninja," he pointed out, quite rationally.

"They might have. Your security system was probably too difficult for them to spot."

Donatello shrugged slightly, allowing himself a moment of pride for his abilities. The cameras were very much as well-hidden as the door itself. No fear of having anyone but the most skilled observer finding them out. "Well, I don't suppose it would be too much to ask for a convenient clue," he said sardonically.

Of course it was. Reality was never really that accommodating. When they arrived, the only traces of Mr. Mystery Intruder were their tracks, made with an unremarkable pair of sneakers, and a crumpled Snickers bar wrapper. Unfortunately, their mystery intruder had neglected to leave anything of use behind that might serve to pinpoint their identity.

Leonardo picked up the wrapper between thumb and forefinger with a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "Eureka," he said in a dry tone, "A clue."

"Fantastic," Donatello said, "Your powers of perception astound me, Holmes." That said, he began to check the wall for any sign that the lock mechanism had been tampered with. Not a trace. Excellent. At least there was that to ease some of his worries. Now the only issue was worrying if this person had any inkling of where they were currently staying. They'd been very good at covering their tracks- it came with the profession of ninja, really, but trouble still dogged their footsteps too often. It wasn't impossible to find them.

"Well?" Leonardo asked, finally.

Withdrawing from the door, he shook his head. "No sign of entry. Might have been an ordinary sewer worker, might have been a nefarious foe. We have nothing but a candy wrapper to aid us in our investigation."

Leonardo's expression lightened up a notch, settling just above the border of 'teasing', hints of a smile playing about his mouth. "I thought you were supposed to be a genius, Don. Use your amazingly analytical mind to solve the problem."

He rolled his eyes, his frustration not entirely feigned. "Sorry to disappoint, but I left my secret spy decoder ring in my other duffle bag. In this case, the criminal left nothing at the scene of the crime to identify him by. We could discover what kind of sneakers he was wearing, if I wanted to bother, which would tell us next to nothing about his identity. Although it does tell us that he probably was no Foot ninja- they typically wear tabi boots." Donatello took the candy wrapper from Leonardo's hand, "Also, I can't envision one of them snacking on these, especially not during a recon mission."

"Which leaves a possible gang member with a grudge, either a survivor from the Purple Dragons, or someone from one of the new ones trying to make a name for themselves. We haven't attracted the attention of anyone major for years, and there's no reason for Bishop to come after us now. None that I can think of, anyway."

Leonardo almost spat out the name of their oldest living enemy, as if allowing it to touch his tongue could poison him. Michelangelo's abduction and consequent dissection had presumably given the man everything he needed from _them_, and he hadn't acted against them unless they attacked him first. Which they had. Many times.

That he hadn't made any moves to exterminate them spoke volumes on the man's opinion of how much of a threat the remaining turtles were. As always, Bishop merely regarded them as a troublesome thorn in his side at worst and possible unwilling pawns at best. As insulting and enraging as that was, it was that perception that kept them alive this long. Of course, that fact was no easier to swallow than the idea that they were nothing but gnats to the man who'd murdered their family.

"This isn't his style, anyway," Donatello said, more than content to brush the possibility away. When Bishop moved, it was with agents and high technology stolen from the alien races he captured and tormented. Not with one lone scout. One lone _amateur_ scout, considering the footprints and lack of subtlety.

"Hm. I suppose not."

"Well. It might have just been a worker," Donatello pointed out. "Old sneakers, no sign of damage, no lewd or offensive graffiti, and not a single ninja footprint. And of course, an unprofessional candy bar."

They looked at each other and smiled grimly, because they both knew they would believe it was a worker or anyone of a similar persuasion when they saw the undeniable proof of it before their eyes, and even then there would be doubt.

It would be nice, but neither of them thought it was anything as normal and harmless as a passing worker, or even someone out exploring the wild sewers of New York. Their luck just didn't work that way. Their luck was more of the 'insidious alien invasion' or 'warped genetic fiends' or 'ancient evil back to destroy the world' sort of thing. And it was relentless.

Their lives weren't well suited to blind trust, and so they tended to distrust everything. It had reached the point where that fact had become, instead of saddening, actually amusing. He didn't know what that said about their mentality at this point.

He shrugged. "I'll put in a better camera here and we'll look at it more closely for a few weeks time."

Leonardo nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

Neither of them said it, but he was sure that Leonardo was thinking it, too: 'Too bad there wasn't anyone here. It would break up the monotony.'

It wasn't as though they were wishing harm on themselves, but even they succumbed to boredom eventually. Their lives, although undoubtedly safer after they'd cut connection with the human world, were also much less exciting. They were athletic, and fighters- if not by nature, then by upbringing, and periods of rest didn't suit them well at all. Usually they'd perform training runs aboveground simply to keep in shape, and while doing so might run into some small crime to be stopped…but it was hardly a challenge.

Still, in a choice between boredom and life-threatening danger, both of them knew the wiser option. Wishing for a fight was worse than foolhardy, it was potentially fatal.

"Spar when we get home?" Leonardo offered. When he looked, there was a touch of amusement in his eyes that suggested that he knew exactly what had been running through his mind.

He didn't bother with any pretense. "Sure. Just let me get everything together beforehand."

They left without actually going into their old home. Neither of them ever visited anymore. At least, _he_ didn't. If Leonardo did, he did so discreetly that Donatello never noticed.

He took a moment, as they left, to imagine what it must look like inside. Bare for the most part, empty of what furniture they took with them. Cobwebbed, moldy, dust-covered. Completely devoid of life aside from three rooms, some of those more untouched than others.

They didn't touch the rooms of the dead. It was an unspoken rule.

* * *

April spoke to them as often as she could, which tended to be a few times a week, with a visit at least once a week. She didn't visit them nearly as much as they visited her, purely for necessity's sake. Their home was much farther from hers, now, and they didn't want her tramping through miles of cold, damp, difficult-to-navigate sewers.

Although she had, weekly, for a short period of time in an attempt to keep them from closing her out entirely when they started withdrawing from people and the world above in general. They gave in and kept up their visits to her around the fourth week, when she had started looking a little grim around the eyes about the long trek and its various dangers. Clearly, April would not be turned away, even for her own good.

Which was why, at around nine in the evening, Leonardo was talking blithely on the shell cell instead of going through sparring exercises with Donatello. Not that his brother minded the lack of practice all that much, since it gave him time to construct what was clearly going to be the most amazing subterranean security camera in all the land.

Judging from the mess of wires and assorted circuitry lying on the desk, Donatello would be at it for some time. He'd reached the stage in the inventive proceedings in which he would mumble things to himself in a language no one else could possibly understand, interspersed with the occasional coherent statement of 'but will it be moisture-proof?' or 'I hope the size won't be an issue.'

Really, it was much better to completely ignore Donatello's zone of creation and focus on something nice and ordinary for the few hours it would take him to achieve science nirvana.

"Has Casey spoken to you lately?" April asked, her tone concerned, but not-quite-there. She had the sort of distant way of speaking she used whenever her attention was preoccupied elsewhere, like with stocking or revamping her home computer. Leonardo attributed that to the subject matter. April's relationship with Casey wasn't on very steady ground these days.

"Hasn't called in a week," he said, truthfully. "I wouldn't worry too much. If something were to happen, I'm sure he'd at least give us word. He's a bonehead, but he's not completely insensitive."

"Mm," she commented, and he could hear the slide of cardboard against cardboard. The rip of packing tape being peeled away. "Nope. Still worrying."

He smiled. "Well. It is Casey. I'd be surprised if you didn't have a _little_ concern. Don't worry; I'm sure his mother will keep him in line."

The last comment was phrased with total sincerity.

This was because Leonardo was absolutely convinced that Ms. Jones could keep a half-crazed bodybuilder in line. She was a short, compact, muscular bundle of strict, controlling energy, and even at her advanced age, could lug hundred pound sacks of potatoes around. The woman missed her calling as a drill sergeant in the army, which was why her developing diabetes had thrown everyone off. Casey had moved in with her to keep an eye on his mom and make sure she didn't need any extra help around the house, a fact which aggravated the woman to no end. Apparently blockheaded stubbornness ran deep in the Jones genes.

"Two Jones in the same house," April often said, "I wonder how they've kept from blowing the place sky high?"

Leonardo suspected Ms. Jones used duct tape and the overwhelming power of her own presence, but kept silent on the matter.

April sighed. "Well. She's sticking more closely to the diet, at least. It's pretty restrictive. I know I would have a difficult time adjusting. And her insulin levels are much better now. So all those yelling matches Casey had with her must have done some kind of good. I wonder if that's just a family communication thing," she said, sounding amused and almost whimsical and completely unaware she was laying a firm finger on a wound, "Some people hold hands and talk about feelings, and some people just throw chairs and yell at each other."

"Something like that," Leonardo said. It wasn't said nearly as lightly as he meant for it to sound. There had been more than one stormy argument with one particular brother that went along those lines, although it hadn't been enough in the end. He missed the fights, violently thrown words and punches, and the aftermath that had both of them weary and subdued enough to accept each others' apologies and move on. He hadn't spoken to Raphael face to face in years even to whisper, let alone yell.

The conversation skipped a beat as April, on the other side, replayed the dialogue and came to the correct conclusion.

"Sorry," she said, softly, then briskly moved on to another subject. No use crying over spilled milk or lost brothers. "Anyway. I made up a care package for her with a bunch of sugar-free goodies she might like. At least, I hope she'll like them."

"If she doesn't, she can throw them at Casey," he said solemnly. He had no doubt that she would, too, if they were in reasonable distance.

April laughed. "I hope not. What a waste of perfectly good food!" That was accompanied with a sliding sound that he took to be the box she'd been working on. She was probably placing the thing on a counter. "Oh, well. I made some of them, so if she likes them, I can send the recipes."

She continued talking about normal subjects like casseroles for the Jones, and what Casey was doing, how he was fixing the old house up, and what was playing on TV lately. Simple, commonplace and soothing and completely at odds with his life. Leonardo drifted off during these talks, keeping an ear on the conversation so he would be able to answer coherently when spoken to, but leaving his mind free to contemplate other things.

Leonardo didn't often have time to think too deeply anymore, not when the two of them were so focused on just _surviving_. Philosophy had to take a backseat to necessity. Still, in the calmer moments, philosophy- quiet, still, subtle thoughts were what he tended to focus on the most. It helped organize his mind into something less chaotic, breathe a sense of order into his too-disordered life. It made him feel closer to the path his father had taught him, had probably wanted them to follow.

Either that, or he sank into memories. Those were meant to be clung to, not mechanically sorted through- scraps of joy and jumbled pieces of well-worn peace of mind. They were like fragments of someone else's life. A smile he couldn't see again, old, familiar laughter, and lessons learnt in the past that filtered through his consciousness like a fragrance that was impossible to trace.

There were so many lessons learned. Hard to trace through them all.

Over at his tech station, Donatello seemed to be climbing steadily up the 'talk feverishly to myself' stage and was just beginning to reach the 'arrange papers and make mysterious sketches' mark that signified he was nearly complete with the initial inventing process. Leonardo watched his brother's hand guide the mechanical pencil to draw tight, frenzied scribbles over a sheet of paper. He thought, watching it, that he could probably meditate to the even, predictable strokes of that pencil.

April's voice gained clarity as she hit a key point. "…Also, some kid keeps hanging around the store, and it's starting to make me suspicious."

He focused back on the conversation. "A kid?"

"Yup. Some boy around high school age. He's been coming by a lot lately, but he doesn't buy anything. Just looks around the store, but not like he's interested in the antiques, really. It seems more like he's interested in the building, or the store itself. He barely talks to me, either, and the few times I spoke to him about what he might be looking for, I got a couple obviously threadbare excuses."

If that wasn't a significant tone, he didn't know what was.

Leonardo narrowed his eyes. "How often has he been coming by?" Donatello, hearing the tone of his voice, glanced questioningly up from his work.

He could almost hear April's careless shrug. He decided that her expression, if he could see it, would most likely be that blend of light indifference masking worry and concern. "Well, he used to drop by once every couple of weeks, but he's started coming every day now."

Frequent visitors from strangers were worrisome. "Do you think he's looking after something in specific, or checking out your security system?"

"Casing the joint, you mean?" April used the old-fashioned turn with heavy sarcasm, "Possibly. His behavior is pretty suspicious, anyway. It's not like he's actually done anything wrong at this point- he's just looking around, and I can't kick him out of the store for that. But still. Creepy. I don't want to ring any false alarms, though," she added hurriedly, obviously realizing that she'd done just that, "Don't think you have to come over or anything."

"What time does he usually come around at?" Leonardo asked, his tone perfectly level. There weren't many alarms he was willing to ignore, false or not.

Donatello, who now had divined the conversation to be about a potential criminal at April's place, was focused intently on the exchange of words. As Leonardo glanced in his direction, Donatello's eye ridges arched questioningly. _What the hell is going on here?_

He shook his head. _Later._

April sounded resigned to the fact that she was going to have ninja visitors very shortly. "Around four-thirty or five," she said. "Sometimes later, like six or seven."

"Sounds appropriate for that age group. If he bothers to go to school, it would be shortly after it lets out."

Warningly. "Leo. He seems like a good kid."

"Mmhm. Who just happens to be paying a lot of careful attention to your store despite not caring about your merchandise."

April muttered something incomprehensible, which he politely pretended not to hear. "Fine. He's well-spoken, at least. Knows some manners. He _seems_ nice, if not completely trustworthy."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Just don't break anything of his, that's all I ask."

"Your concern has been duly noted."

She sighed. "You probably won't have to talk to him at all, you know. He might just be trying to hide out from thugs himself."

"We'll find that out too, don't worry. Make sure the door in your cellar's unlocked."

There were other ways into a building, of course, but breaking into April's place seemed completely and utterly wrong. Also, rude.

"Consider it done. And Leo?"

He was already considering what to take with him and how long a shift they would take watching the store for the suspicious possible-burglar. "Yes?"

There was a hint of teasing in that stern tone of hers. "Don't break anything of mine, either. You couldn't afford it."

He smiled and hung up. Break one priceless tea set and you never heard the end of it.

Donatello looked at him impatiently.

Waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, he answered the unspoken question. "Nothing too impressive. Some teenager is constantly skulking around her store and she's getting nervous."

"Hm," Donatello said, shrugging slightly, turning his attention back to the plans for his new security system design. "Shouldn't take the both of us, then."

"We'll alternate days. He only comes at a certain time, too. I don't think it's anything too serious. At the worst, it might be a potential break-in." April really didn't get as much trouble as one would expect from a known friend and ally of some of the criminal underground's worst enemies. A good part of that was the turtles' surveillance of their store, some of it was April's own skills, and the rest was chalked up to obscenely good luck.

Decision made, he folded his arms and gave Donatello a waiting look. "So."

"Hm?" The reply of someone firmly entrenched in dreamland.

"Sparring exercises, Don. Don't think I forgot about them."

Donatello muttered something that sounded like 'an elephant never forgets', which he summarily ignored. "Fine. Just let me get my notes in order beforehand."

"Blind-fighting this time?" he asked.

A snort. "Too easy."

"No weapons, no visibility, and one dead appendage."

"Foot or arm?"

"Either."

They liked to choose handicaps for the sessions to make them less formulaic. Besides, it came in handy for the possibility that one of them might fall to a sudden fit of blindness or deafness or armlessness. Some of the handicaps began to get creative as they starting choosing a different one for each of them- no weapons, bound arms, etc, and then started choosing two each. It was their idea of a fun and challenging game. Sometimes they took it sewer-wide and tracked each other, a more dangerous game of the childish 'hide and seek' they used to use as practice exercises when they were younger.

Perhaps they had too much time on their hands.

Pushing the incident at their old lair out of their mind, (_but only for now_,) they set up the dojo in the middle of the main room for a nice, long training session.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Not sure how much I trust my TMNT muse, which has long been dead and vanquished. This fic really was supposed to be a long multi-chap, and I'll try to keep it up as long as I can, but I speak the truth to say I'm mostly a fandom mayfly- skipping from place to place. I'm returning to this one because it's been in my head for a year albeit my inability to write it, so expect this to be a last hurrah.


	3. to catch a thief

**Ouroboros Complex**

**By: **Serendipity

**Chapter Two: **_to catch a thief_

_

* * *

_

There was certainly something to be said about an antique store at any time of the day. That something was that it was boring. It was especially so for a person who couldn't amble freely around the store itself, and therefore alleviate a small amount of boredom by looking at the merchandise. Leonardo was in the apartment directly above the store proper, looking at the various video feeds from the security cameras Donatello had installed in the building.

April's store wasn't very well-frequented, which made it easier to observe all of the customers- which came in clusters of about four people to the whole store, with the maximum amount of people at a time being five or six. There were long periods of no customers at all. The general age of her clientele appeared to be middle-aged to elderly, which made the teenage boy visitor an anomaly in himself. Still, the kid didn't stop by every day, and it was a good week of waiting before he managed a proper sighting.

Mystery Kid wasn't much to look at: just an average-looking teenaged boy, wandering around after school. Medium height, medium build. The kind of wiry, gangly look that meant he had a growth spurt to catch up on. Messy brown hair, typical Caucasian human complexion. There wasn't any sort of significance in his clothes, either- no obvious gang references. Just jeans, sneakers, and the typical parade of sweatshirts and tees.

Upon studying his body language, he couldn't see any of the innate grace of a trained fighter or the cocky swagger of a miscreant. There was an innate grace, a sense of control to the movements of people who had been trained in the martial arts, and this kid moved like a typical teenager- all swinging, gawky movements.

As for his behavior, he didn't seem nervous or jumpy, just bored and even confused as to what he was doing in a dusty antique shop on a perfectly good day after school. A spy might not have been overtly edgy, but a teenaged informant would have been. At his age, which Leonardo would place at fourteen to seventeen, he wouldn't have been able to completely learn how to mask his expressions, not to mention train his body language so thoroughly. A teenager, sent to gather information on a store, would have been visibly jumpy, his body language projecting nervousness, his eyes constantly looking for cameras. This kid glanced all over the store, not inspecting anything for long periods of time, occasionally picking up items and turning them idly around in his hands.

The kid did, however, look frequently at April. Sometimes he'd approach the counter, as if wanting to ask a question, but he never actually spoke to her. None of this indicated that he was particularly dangerous. That was disappointing, since he'd actually been looking forward to some possible action. Not that he'd admit as much to April, who would probably be happy to know that the weird teenage stalker wasn't planning to burn down her store any time soon. She'd already been through that once and most likely would not appreciate a repeat performance.

"Well?" Donatello asked, once he'd confirmed a sighting of the rare and exotic teenager and possible-stalker. His voice buzzed over the shell cell, raised over the sound of something mechanical and clanking. "Are we going to prepare for another attempted attack, or can we chalk this up to the even rarer occasion of a kid actually being interested in antiques?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," he said. "Not yet, anyway. At the worst, he's a petty thief, and April can handle one of those on her own. At best?" he shrugged, "Just some kid who likes antiques."

"That's disappointing, Leo. I anticipated at least one thrilling tale of spy gear, incendiary devices, or even discovered links to Roswell. Do I not even get a glimpse of a secret spy decoder ring?" Something crackled, and there was a brief, whispered curse, followed by another crackle. "I expect better out of a recon mission of this magnitude."

Leonardo managed a brief smile. "I'll keep an eye out." Admittedly, it was probably on the edge of paranoid to be putting this much effort into surveying the store. Still, April having never been targeted by their enemies was luck, not a rule fixed in iron. It wouldn't do to be complacent. "Try not to burn down the place before I get back home."

"Of course not. You know I'd wait for you to at least get through the front door before causing a conflagration. This is only shaping up to be a small explosion." A pause, as Donatello presumably calculated factors, trying to come up with a positive remark. "Possibly," was all he managed. "I'm sure it won't be, though."

Leonardo took a breath. "Possibly." His voice was the flat tone of someone who has yet to truly comprehend the level of horror going on just beyond the phone receiver. He was suddenly overwhelmed by visions of fiery infernos taking place in their small living room. It was not a pretty sight. It was given shape and solidity by several past events in which infernos had, indeed, occurred.

An aggrieved sigh met his obvious overreaction. "I'm sure of it, relax. How long has it been since something went wrong with my calculations? Ignore a week ago, that was influenced by external factors. Such as your tea spilling on it. Clearly, you were to blame."

"I feel like I should have surveillance cameras on _you_ instead, somehow."

Donatello chuckled. "Don't be ridiculous. That would never work with me." That was stated with a sense of gentle mockery- there was no machine in the world that Don couldn't dismantle to suit his own needs, and whenever Leonardo tried to adjust something technological, it tended to end in spectacular failure. Normal, everyday things he was fine with, but anything over that level was a mystery to him. No, attempting to spybot his brother was utterly futile.

He sighed. "Just promise me that the dojo'll remain intact."

"Of course."

"Untouched, even."

"Naturally."

"I'll bring some footage for you to look over later," Leonardo continued. "Try to enhance the images and see if there's anything small that I'm missing."

"Excellent," Donatello said with false enthusiasm, "I haven't had homework in ages. Anything in particular you want me to be looking for?"

"Yes. Anything in particular," Leonardo said, and ended the call.

* * *

Five days later, and Leonardo came to several conclusions. The first was that the kid was either the world's greatest prodigy actor complete with total muscle control and the ability to effortlessly pull off the facsimile of an awkward teenager…or he was just an awkward teenager. The second was that, if he was working for anyone, they probably didn't need any crucial information about the store. The third was that this kid wasn't interested in antiques at all, and it made no rational sense for him to be here as often as he was without some ulterior motive.

The fourth was that April should never be in charge of making the tea.

It wasn't that it was black tea, not really. He certainly preferred green, but black was acceptable. It was that she tended to steep the leaves long enough to make a really wickedly powerful cup of tea, bitter and acidic and _too strong_. That, and she bought the sort of novelty flavors like blackcurrant and chocolate-cranberry, which ran completely opposite to Leo's more vegetal preference in teas. He felt perhaps he should bring a hip flask of genmaichai with him next time and use his ninja skills to pour it, subtly, into his cup.

As it was, he took a polite, expressionless sip of raspberry earl grey and tried to turn his attention to the matter at hand. Which was small talk. Something he wasn't particularly adept with at the best of times, but especially poor with when there were two computer nerds happily speaking to each other in code from opposite sides of the table.

At the moment, they were animatedly discussing something about a groundbreaking revelation in some kind of software…not that he was paying much attention to the matter. Leonardo kept up basic computer proficiency, enough so that he wasn't computer illiterate and could use it for basic tasks and information gathering, but he never actually_ immersed_ himself in them. This left him with nothing to give to the conversation aside from possibly a parade of: "What's that?"

For the lack of anything useful to say, he simply studied body language: April's open smile, friendly, casual posture. The way she leaned forward eagerly over her teacup when discussing something that engaged her interest. Donatello's tendency to talk with his hands, gesturing fluidly, subconsciously mirroring April's body language as he did so. The two of them leaned into each other's space as though magnetically charged, two computer geeks communicating on the same frequency.

April's light chatter wound down. "…And that was what the latest articles have been saying. Well. Is my store going to be burned down in the near future?"

The non sequitor made him focus back on the conversation. "Hm?" Two sets of eyes watched him expectantly.

"The store, Leo," said April, who was clearly more adept at conversation derailing than he was. "The possible teenaged stalker. Am I going to have to check to see if my insurance covers gang-related arson?"

Leonardo shrugged. "We haven't monitored him thoroughly enough yet to come up with a solid conclusion. The most I can tell you is that he doesn't seem professional or adept enough to be involved with a larger organization."

"Great." April rolled her eyes. "I'm sure I can deal with one teenaged stalker, if it comes down to that. Do you really have to keep staking out in my living room?"

"Well, the bathroom is too full. The bedroom would be inappropriate," Donatello said appeasingly, not looking up from the newspaper he was suddenly inspecting.

"I appreciate that thought, Don," April said, lips quirking as she tried to fight a smile. "But, still. How soon will you be finished with this?"

Leonardo looked at her solemnly in the eyes. "You don't want us here?" To his right, Donatello began to find the paper utterly entrancing and refused to look up from it, his shoulders going suspiciously still. "The last thing we want to do is put a burden on your life," he continued, looking at her with an expression of grave penitence. "You're right, of course. We'll leave right away."

"Oh, no!" April grabbed his hands firmly, "Of course not. You're welcome whenever you want to come around."

"Thank you, April. That means a lot to us." He made sure to look quietly, humbly pleased.

Donatello shot to his feet and made an excuse to go to the kitchen for some more sugar. Leonardo suspected his brother was going to stay there for a bit longer than the usual time it took to find the paper sack of turbinado and add a few spoonfuls to his cup. For some reason or another, he seemed to find it very difficult to keep a straight face whenever Leonardo pulled the 'lost and abandoned waifs' routine on April. He couldn't possibly fathom why.

"Anyway," he added, "Once we finish a week of surveillance, we'll try to come to a decision. Have you noticed anything odd about his behavior? "

"He buys candy bars whenever he comes here," April said, shrugging. "Although I suspect it's because I asked him if he wanted to buy anything after his third trip to the store." She arched an eyebrow. "I might have said it very pointedly."

Which meant he wasn't trying very hard to come up with a suitable excuse about why he was so interested in visiting the store. That move lacked a certain professional finesse.

"Has it occurred to you that he might just be interested in antiques?" April folded her arms. "I mean, yeah, not a lot of kids are, but it's possible. He might just like looking around the store for the merchandise."

"It's occurred to me," he said. Actually, evidence seemed to be supporting this option more and more, aside from the fact that the nameless teenager didn't actually look at any of the inventory with what he'd call interest.

"I know," Donatello said, finally coming out of the kitchen. He looked perfectly composed. "He's obviously hiding coded messages in the candy bars. We should intercept them immediately and attempt to reveal the information. What particular brand candy does he buy? Is it Snickers? Snickers is very suspicious."

"It's actually Milky Way," April said, amused.

"Ahhh. Was it Milky Way original or Milky Way Dark?" Donatello asked, facetiously, "Milky Way Dark is the candy bar of evil."

Leonardo looked severe. "I don't think you're treating this with the seriousness that it requires. I think we need to kidnap him and interrogate him thoroughly."

Apparently his tone was too serious. The other two just looked at him, April with her eyebrows raised in surprise, Donatello with a flat, questioning expression that plainly read: '_Are you serious?_'

"That was a joke," he added, looking at them flatly. "Haha."

They failed to be amused and instead looked at him with pity. .

"One of the great mathematical laws of the universe, Leo," said Donatello sagely, patting him on the shoulder with mock sympathy, "Is that you should never make an attempt to be funny. It just doesn't work for you. You can make inspiring speeches and somehow manage to pull off horrible action movie lines, but humor is beyond your range of expertise. Accept it."

"_Anyway_," he said, another attempt at humor foiled, "Just give it two more days. We'll stop hanging out in your living room after that point." He distinctly passed over the possibility of ending surveillance. Because that was simply out of the question. Some people might have called him paranoid at this point, but a well-formed sense of paranoia had served to keep him and Donatello alive so far. It was a small price to pay for survival and safety, he felt.

April accepted this and the implied continued surveillance with the grace and aplomb of someone used to dealing with jumpy ninjas. "Fine." She gave him a sweeping look. "Just keep me updated on what you decide to do about it, will you?"

Which meant: '_I am still accountable for what happens in my store, and I do not want a full-scale battle, a kidnapping, or an actual interrogation in here, you guys_.' Although she had joined them in their battles, they hadn't lent her the same desensitization towards danger and the necessities of warfare that they had, (_because it was a war, between them and humanity- one side trying to defend, the other to destroy_,) and she tended to keep her life separate from it all. That was, her life as a fairly successful store-owner and collector of antiques. She balanced it with her life as a friend to mutant, sewer-dwelling ninjas quite well, the two lives running parallel two each other, but it was clear that she wanted at least some foundation of normalcy to build all of this danger and madness on. Understandable.

He nodded, once- final and precise. He doubted it would come to them actually swiping the kid out of the store and hauling him off for questioning, but if it came to that, she'd be forewarned.

Eventually, he made yet another attempt to sweeten his tea into acceptability, and regular conversation began again, buzzing around his comfortable silence. He thought of traps and how to spring them and the delicate science of muscle and grace that was body language, what it said about the person it belonged to. What it might say about the kid.

* * *

After a week of thorough and diligent inspection, he sat down with Donatello to compare their observations on the subject. They'd compiled a heap of video footage and a list of relevant data, which Donatello had made with more satirical intent than anything halfway serious. On it was written such passages as: 'Kid wears Nike instead of Reebok sneakers today. Clearly has bad intentions,' and 'Kid inspected one too many china teacup. Am suspecting a code.' Other than sarcastic notations, he hadn't gathered anything particularly noteworthy, and certainly nothing incriminating.

"Typical teenage infatuation," Donatello put forth. They'd watched the most unusual of the video footage- shots of the kid inspecting the store itself, but in all of the images, he'd seemed to be looking at random. There wasn't any conceivable pattern in his inspection, and the kid was also looking at the wrong places to be searching for cameras or security. It looked more like he was just trying to look like he was busy.

"Probably has a crush on her and hasn't worked himself up to going up and talking to her," he added, shrugging. "Looks like no other action will be required."

Leonardo had to agree, albeit with an air of resignation. Sure, it was a boring conclusion, but nothing the kid had done so far rang any suspicious bells. Nothing shop-lifted, no one pick-pocketed, no suspicious pictures taken of the premise. Case closed.

He felt, instinctively, that it wasn't as cut and dry as it looked, but his gut feeling could just as easily be untrustworthy paranoia. He let it lie, figuring that if something came up, they'd take care of it then.

"Have you sent a message to Raph?" Leonardo asked, when they had reached one of their usual lulls- Donatello had tired of toying with his computers, he had finished training for the day, and they were both on the couch in April's apartment, trying to watch television. The question had long ago ceased to be anything casually asked. They sent one message, once a week, to a shell cell that may or may not return a response. It was like casting note-filled bottles at the ocean, waiting for their safe return.

Donatello's mouth twisted. "I don't see what the point is. He didn't respond to last week's, or the week before that. Why don't we give him some time to work on the accumulated notes from the previous weeks before sending him anything else?"

He sighed, anticipating the discussion to come. "You know Raph. He's probably read them. Do you expect him to respond to everything?" It was a fragile argument, especially since he wasn't in solid support of it. He'd just lost his ability to be upset at Raphael, instead choosing to greet his distance with resignation. Donatello clung harder to him.

"Well, yes, actually." Donatello snapped. "I fully expect him to be thoughtful and respond to the messages I send because it's not like he's on a vacation to Vegas, Leo. He's off in god knows where, engaging in questionable activities, probably endangering himself in various ways…so, yes. I do think that it's not too great an expectation to want Raph to actually send a message once a _week_."

Which would be completely reasonable if they were talking about anyone else. "I know that. But it's Raph. Do you expect_ Raph _to respond to all of our messages? He's always on his own schedule." Leonardo would be willing to bet, however, that Raphael was keeping track of the messages in his own way, either reading them or just taking note of them. They sent them periodically, once per week, a routine that served only one purpose: to let him know that they were alive. The details of their lives hardly mattered anymore unless something crucial came up.

"Maybe we should just stop writing him messages every now and then," Donatello said, but he retrieved his shell cell as he spoke. "It would give him an object lesson. You were always fond of those. That way, he'll have a firsthand understanding of what we go through when we get no response for a month."

"Or he'll think we've been attacked." Or that they gave up on him.

Leonardo didn't want to send false alarm, not when they depended so much on those signals.

"Well, then we'll find out if he actually cares enough to come find us, won't we?" Donatello's mouth was set in a grim line, the bitterness thick in his tone. His fingers selected keys and sent a brief, curt message. They were alive. Nothing was happening. April was well. His narrowed eyes and the stiff set of his shoulders sent another message.

_I don't believe you actually care._

"You shouldn't think that of him," Leonardo said, quietly. There wasn't any recrimination in his voice, however. It wasn't as if he blamed him for thinking that way. Not for the brother who acted like a stray cat, absent for most of the year, stopping by at random intervals and leaving just as unannounced as when he came.

"Shouldn't I?" The question had the sharpness of any bladed weapon.

Leonardo stayed silent at that, just gave him a look. On the screen, some reporter in an impeccably-pressed suit was discussing the latest issue, a hurricane hitting Florida, rebuilding efforts. Something far away.

A few more buttons pressed, and then the message was sent. Another message in a bottle.

"He might be dead," Donatello said, expressionlessly. "Sometimes I think it might be easier that way. No more waiting."

The last line, spoken in the silent, cramped corners of their home, had enough probability in it to make him want to shudder. His own shell cell rang before Leonardo could respond to it, and he couldn't decide if he was relieved or frustrated at the intrusion. Flicking it open, he waited for the message. "Hello?"

"Hey, Leo?" April answered, her voice tight. She was either nervous or annoyed, or both. "Here's an update. The kid seems to have snuck into my basement. Do you want to come downstairs and check it out?"


	4. he might not make it home

**Ouroboros Complex**

**By: **Serendipity

**Chapter Three: **_he might not make it home_

_

* * *

_

_The time has come to make all your wishes  
And burn, burn, burn, burn, burn all your bridges  
And hope they remember you as something more than just a failure  
Something more than a life without it's key_

**-'Wave Goodbye', Framing Hanley**

**

* * *

**

There was something a random wise sage said about living by the sword and dying by the sword, but in the end he wasn't that lucky. It was probably one of those sayings Master Splinter talked about that didn't really fit what happened in real life anyway, but that didn't mean that he had to like it when the saying backfired on him.

In the end, he died by inches on a table, and the blades cutting his body were scalpels, not swords.

Not that he knew anything at the time, not when he was getting together a bunch of stuff to go play superhero with. No costume this time, he was pretty sure Leonardo had thrown the thing away somewhere he couldn't find it. His vengeance would be swift and merciless. Michelangelo figured he'd have to plot it for a week, _while_ trying to dig out that costume from wherever pit Leonardo stashed it in. He was fairly sure that it was actually thrown away, but he wouldn't put it past his brother to stash it someplace impossible to find in the hopes that he'd forget about it.

Forget. Bah. Clearly they missed the memo on how superheroing was a full time gig. Michelangelo finished rummaging hopelessly through his stuff in a last-ditch effort to find his cape. Definitely not there. He was going to have to replace the entirety of Leonardo's incense with sparklers. That would show him the meaning of regard for personal belongings. Michelangelo thought this with the full experience of someone who had made a profitable practice of stealing his brother's Halloween candy.

He'd been thinking something about the evening, about how quiet it had been lately in the city, no outbreaks of anything. There wasn't much going on that night. It was going to be kind of boring, and not the kind of boring that starts out boring but ends up fun, but the kind of night watch that only offers up a mugging or a purse snatching without even the vague promise of a supervillain or a rogue ninja. That's what he'd thought. Quick run around town, get some fresh air, get back in time for hardass Leo to try and whip him into shape. No problem.

Speaking of his Hardassness (Or _was it hardassery? His noble hardass highness? He of the hard ass_?), Leonardo caught his eye just as he was about to slip quietly and, he thought, unobtrusively out. Drat. Foiled again. No more sneaky schemes for this ninja. Clearly he was going to have to polish up on his art of moving in the shadows if he was going to slip out on the supreme god of ninjutsu in the future. As it was, he gave a wide, unassuming grin and shrugged his shoulders innocently.

"Hey, Leo," he said. Don't sound twitchy, nervous, or desperate, he thought. All of those were signs of him being Up To No Good, even when he was totally out doing the best kind of Good and elevating society. He was to speak in a flawlessly casual voice. He was cool. Cool as a cucumber. Cool as lemonade.

"Mikey," Leonardo said, with a note of responsible older brother frustration, which Michelangelo personally thought was unfair of him. It wasn't as though he'd _done_ anything yet.

"What?" he asked, straightening up a little, "That was your 'I'm gonna start me up a talk' voice, and that's not fair. I mean, I just said hello. Can't we wait until I crack a bad joke or something? That pre-emptive leadering has got to go."

But Leonardo was not to be dissuaded by something as petty as common decency. No, he was ninja god and he would have his say. And by that, he meant that he would stand there like a staring rock. Because he knew that Michelangelo quite easily buckled under staring pressure. It wasn't fair of him to capitalize on Michelangelo's weaknesses, but there he was, the nefarious jerk.

He heaved a dramatic sigh. "Relax, I'm not going to pull any pranks just yet, although I owe you one_ big time_. I'm just heading up for a bit to stretch my legs."

"Can't you wait for Don and Raph to come back?" Leonardo folded his arms. He was a perennial mother hen. Not that anyone would tell him that to his face, but for god's sake, it was seriously like having a bizarre, ninja mom. Only a dude. Who would crouch nearby and glare at you and mutter threateningly about trying not to wander aboveground alone, and did they finish practicing, and not to spill the cereal because of ants.

"That'll take too long." Michelangelo smiled easily, crossed his arms in deliberate parody of his brother. "Come on, it'll be fine. I'll bring mace and try not to wear a short skirt and watch my drink and everything. Besides, no one can touch The Turtle Titan-"

"Have a good night, Mikey," Leonardo ruthlessly cut him off, returning the smile as he did so with a quieter one of his own.

That was it. Really, he would have liked to say it was a special moment, or a pivotal moment, or that something amazing was revealed. That he was leaving on a note that gave someone impact, but that was his last conversation at home, his last talk with a brother. No one really got to choose what they were doing the hour before they fell into danger, no one could foresee and plan what they would do in the weeks before they died. (_oh god, the weeks, he'd died for weeks, slow and endless_.)

But, really, he thought. He could have spoken for longer. He could have said goodbye. Could have said more.

Could have, could have.

Michelangelo left on the same note that he did most nights: 'good night, I'll be back, make some popcorn so we can watch a movie,' and his brother left him leave with the same expectation that he'd return. It was a nice night. Warm: spring-warm without the heavy humidity of mid-summer, a cool breeze, a bright night sky. The sort of evening you'd expect people went out to movies or long walks in.

He liked those nights more than the cloudy, pitch-dark ones that shrouded them more effectively in shadows, or the rain-drenched ones that gave partial concealment through the sheets of slicing rain. Those were better for ninjas, but this kind of night was better to run in, to enjoy life, to feel like he was part of the city for once. Sometimes, his brothers would goof around on nights like this, like they were real teenagers having fun, and those were the sort of memories Michelangelo would polish up and store. Maybe it was because he wasn't thinking of being a ninja that he was captured. Could have been his mind just wasn't in the right state. It wasn't as though he was known for his talent for concentration. He'd always been the easiest to surprise.

This was what his brothers never saw.

It was a mugging, he remembered. He'd heard a woman screaming, a man angrily snarling, and the heavy thump of a fist hitting flesh. Didn't occur to him as strange, because it was New York City. Muggings weren't uncommon. Michelangelo had been through this song and dance routine before. Go down, deliver one well-placed kick or punch, whichever he wanted at the time, flee to the shadows before the helpless victim noticed that their rescuer was a little less human than most. It was routine at this point, not something to bother thinking about, and definitely not something to immediately suspect.

Besides, even if he'd been ninety-nine percent sure of it being a trap, he wasn't going to risk that one percent and leave someone alone and helpless. That was just not cool. Of course he had to go rushing to the rescue.

Michelangelo chose the simplest method of approach- leap down from the roof to a lower fire escape, and then simply launch himself at the mugger's head and shoulders, bearing him down to the ground. Not fancy, but why bother being fancy with some third-rate mugger who probably didn't even know how to hold his knife right? There was no reason to waste perfectly good advanced ninjutsu on someone like _that. _Which was, of course, what they had planned on all along.

He launched a perfect attack on Mugger Number Five-Hundred Thirty-Eight in this City, aiming a flawless kick to the space between his shoulder blades and sending him crashing to the ground, face-first. He estimated at least a broken nose from a fall like that.

Around that point was when he heard the ominous click of a weapon he knew was aimed at him, and he glanced back in a half-second that seemed to drag through molasses-thick time, and found himself staring right into the barrel of a gun.

The helpless female victim looked at him with grim, set eyes and a determined set to her mouth, and he suddenly began to notice things like how she knew how to hold that gun perfectly, and how her stance was flawless. She glared coldly at him, her hands steady, her gaze unflinching. How the weapon he initially mistook for a gun was hijacked alien technology with the letters EDF in bold engraved print on the side. All of this he took in for a fraction of a second, and then he froze.

They used to scold him about that, in practice and in battle. He was the fastest, but in the end, it didn't matter how fast you were when your legs refused to move. His mind would go blank, his limbs would go stiff and heavy, his thoughts would race and chatter and _freeze_. (_stop it mikey you'll get killed doing that watch your back mikey pay attention you can't afford to freeze in battle you'll get killed_.) Somewhere between fight and flight his mind would shut down in a terminal case of indecision. That night was the last time he would ever face that choice.

He froze for three seconds. Enough time for the man behind him to shoot him in the shoulder with a heavy-duty sedative.

End game. And what a way to go.

The last thought he had going down was that Leonardo was going to get pissed at him for getting caught. It never occured to him that he might not make it out.


	5. unwelcome discoveries of all kinds

**Ouroboros Complex**

**By: **Serendipity

**Chapter Four: **_unwelcome discoveries of all kinds_

_

* * *

_

"He just opened the door and went down, I mean, I would go check it out myself," April explained, her voice set more quietly than usual, "But I have a customer I'm working with here. So if it's not too much to ask, could you just pop down there and spook him out?"

Leonardo glanced at Donatello, who'd gone over to check back up on the security cameras. On the feed, the kid was walking down the stairs and looking around. It was difficult to see the expression on his face, but the way he moved was hesitant and stiff, suggesting nervousness. Nothing like the sense of confidence you'd see in someone who knew what they were doing. From what he could see of the store, it was fairly empty of customers- they'd had the lunch break 'rush' already, and right now, there was only an elderly lady at the front and a small cluster of men in business suits observing some kind of pottery. None of them, fortunately, were near the area he had to be for the basement entrance.

"Sure thing, April," he said. "Expect him to come out shortly."

In a hurry, even. He honestly didn't expect the confrontation to take very long. Jittery kids were painfully easy to spook, and the behavior he'd shown up 'til now fit the profile of a dumb teenager trying to get a thrill out of engaging in risky behavior. If he had the type down right, a few words would send him running.

"Thanks," she said, and the shell cell clicked into silence as April, presumably, went back to her customer. A glance over his shoulder told him Donatello was still studying the footage from the basement cam, on which their young trespasser was glancing around furtively. He hadn't made any movements to go forward yet, but simply stood in the dim light in a moment of uncertainty. There really was nothing of interest down there- storage boxes, paper reams, an extra room and a closet. He wondered what the kid had expected to find down there, or if he was just sneaking around to see if he could without getting caught.

"Careful, Leo," Donatello said, sarcastically, "He's wearing the bad intention sneakers today. He could be packing heat. Do you think you need back up?"

Scrutinizing the monitor told him that yes; the kid was in fact wearing Nikes. Leonardo smiled slightly. "No," he said with a moment's false hesitation, "I think I've got it covered. But be sure to watch for any suspicious movements." And then he was off towards the stairs, because while he didn't think the intruder would actually accomplish anything in under three minutes, it still was best to take care of things as quickly as possible.

It wasn't too difficult to make it down the small flight of spiraled stairs and towards the door without being spotted- it would have been a lot more tricky if she'd had more people in the store or if someone had actually been watching the upstairs entrance to the store. As it was, he slipped with effortless ease through the building and quietly opened the door to the basement, the sound of the doorknob turning an almost inaudible 'click'. Below, he could hear the light shuffle of footsteps. The light was turned on, so there was a murky, subterranean glow about the place that could only be achieved by cheap basement light fixtures. April never bothered to change it, since no one was renting the basement room anymore, and anyways she rarely ventured down to the basement to begin with.

The steps were dry and creaky and difficult to quietly descend, but he was a ninja, so that evened itself out. He assessed the situation. The boy, unaware of the presence of another, stood at the far end of the basement, his back turned from him and the door. Not wise at all, considering that he was certainly not where he was supposed to be and someone could be entering at any time. As Leonardo watched, deciding to observe him for a few moments, he walked towards the door to the storage room, touched the doorknob, and hesitated. His hand came down, then reached out again, then finally he turned away and walked towards the corner that led to the area in which they had placed the door that led towards the sewers. His step was heavy and almost hesitant; unsurprising, since the area he was walking to led him to an unlit corner of the basement. He brushed his hand against the side of the wall, presumably trying to find a light switch.

That was about the time Leonardo decided to kill the lights.

"Hey! Wha-" the kid spluttered from the darkness, the sound shocked and then fractured near the end, probably where he realized that he wasn't supposed to be making noise in someone else's basement.

"And just _what_," Leonardo said, sternly, "Do you think you're doing?" The intimidating voice from the shadows effect. Usually, it worked wonders. This time was no exception.

He could hear the kid scrambling frantically around in the sudden pitch darkness, followed by the definite sound of something smacking hard into a solid surface: a shuffling, solid thwack and a muffled cry. Yes, someone just ran into the wall. His mouth quirked upward and he stepped forward with silent swiftness, closer to where he could hear the panicked sound of the kid's breathing.

"Nothing to say?" he asked, lightly. He was answered with a startled cry- clearly the intruder hadn't expected him to move close to him so quickly. The kid shot forward, knocking straight into him. Leonardo took his shoulders and spun him towards the direction of the door, releasing him with a hard shove. "Exit's that way," he said. "Don't come back."

The kid took off running with a heavy stumble as he jolted forward, and Leonardo hit the light switch just before he reached the steps. The basement flickered dimly into clearer focus, the light looking brighter from his eyes adjusting to the sudden glow. Without bothering to glance behind him, the kid pounded his way up the basement steps and hurtled out the door, disappearing through the rectangle of light that was the door frame.

He allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. Ah, the intimidating voice in the shadows routine. So simple, yet so thoroughly effective, especially when used against amateurs.

The patrons were probably aiming their attention at the open basement door at that point. You see a frightened kid bolt out of a room and go running; your attention's going to go first to the kid, then to the direction where he was running from. Therefore, exiting from the same place he entered too soon would be unwise. Leonardo decided to wait a while before heading back up. The store would be closing in a couple hours anyway.

Meanwhile, Donatello was probably muttering something uncomplimentary about the recent performance to himself, since he'd entirely missed the exchange. Those cameras didn't see anything in pitch darkness.

* * *

"You had to turn the lights off, didn't you?"

That was, as expected, the first thing out of Donatello's mouth, while he gave him a look that suggested that he was being tried enormously by this. "You couldn't be satisfied with hiding in the extra room and pretending to be a grumpy tenant, oh no. You just had to go ninja master and suck all the light out of the room."

Leonardo nodded penitently. "Sorry. I wasn't aware you were feeling voyeuristic today."

Donatello just shrugged at him, the movement careless and casual. "It's the boredom, Leo. I believe it has made me look forward to any possibility of excitement I can find. Not that I expect what happened downstairs to be very exciting, since I noticed it was over very quickly. Lights on, lights off, fleeing teenager. Very disappointing." He fiddled with something on the desk- a tool of some kind, slender and metal and probably sharp.

"Not that we needed any more proof of this, but he definitely isn't trained." Leonardo sat down close to the desk and leaned against the wall, the dry, painted surface cool to the touch against his arms and the skin of the back of his head.

Donatello looked down at him quizzically. "How untrained would you say he is?"

"He ran into a wall."

That coaxed out the edge of a snicker. "Graceful. See what I miss when you decide to go for the most dramatic ninja route possible? Try to be more thoughtful, Leo. Think of your audience."

He smiled. "Yes, I'll get right on that. Silly of me to try and stick to the shadows like that." Honestly, he easily could have engineered it so that he was behind a door or stack of boxes while speaking to the kid, but he liked being in pitch darkness. It felt more comfortable, something like how a fish would feel when slipping into water.

Leonardo idly checked a monitor as they spoke. Downstairs, April was wrapping something up for her last customer. Her fingers made swift, deft movements as she turned whatever it was in her hands, wrapping it carefully in bubble wrap and brown paper, sealing it delicately with tape. She'd be closing up, soon. "Any other requests?" he asked.

"I'll compose a list. Speaking of lists, I need to go look for a few parts. Do you feel up for a little trip?"

He grimaced. "What, already? And what kind of 'trip' are you talking about? Please tell me that you're not intending to launch a raid on a lab or anything."

Donatello's scavenging excursions, depending on how basic the parts he wanted were, ranged from a fairly simple excursion to a threatening, hostile encounter. They could be merely going to the dump for scrap metal, or breaking into a plant or facility to procure the more difficult to locate materials. On the whole, even the more dangerous locations weren't anything over the threat level of what Bishop or Shredder had working for them, but they still weren't what he'd call a walk in the park. And then there were the occasional incidents with the bizarre- like that one time that Donatello had unknowingly chosen the evil lair of a supervillain to pilfer chemicals from. That had been a memorable occasion. He'd never had to fight giant, zombie rats before.

Meanwhile, his brother was giving him his bland, 'I don't know what you're talking about' look. The sort of look that he dug up whenever he wanted to give the vague impression of innocence. "Hm?" he said, smiling blankly.

Leonardo gave him a look. "Don." Not that he wasn't up for a quick mission to a government facility, it was more that he liked to have an opportunity to plan for it. Perhaps for an hour or so. Yes, he had tendencies towards being a control freak, but it was completely justified.

Donatello shrugged. "No, nothing too life-threatening. Sorry to disappoint you, but it's just a routine trip to the dump." He smirked at him. "Don't worry, I won't drag you away from your soaps for too long."

It was a televised mini-series on the Tale of Genji, _not_ a soap opera.

Not that he was going to rise to the defense of his form of television entertainment. It was actually very well depicted, with few historical or cultural inaccuracies. Also, it had actual drama, not the mass-produced, banal sort typically shown in sitcoms. And,_ not_ a soap opera. That was a very important distinction.

"I feel that someone who watches Galaxy Channel as much as you do shouldn't be critiquing anyone's taste in shows," he said pointedly, not appreciating the derail into entertainment choices, but going with it.

Donatello gave him a look that demanded he take back that statement. "Hey, Galaxy Channel has some quality shows on it."

"Like the newest take on Star Trek?" He'd seen a couple episodes of it, and so far it seemed a lot like relationship drama in space. With forehead aliens. Perhaps some political and social messages tossed in, but so far, a lot of relationship angles. "Has T'kar hooked up with the captain yet?"

"Point." Donatello sighed, conceding to the fact that his sci fi was just as soap opera as anything else. "Anyway. It shouldn't take too long searching for what I need. If they don't have it, I have…alternatives."

He'd specifically gone for the significant pause there, giving the statement a particular mad scientist flair. It made him wonder suspiciously about what those alternatives were and if a supervillain truly _was_ on the grocery list this week.

"All right," Leonardo said, thinking quickly as he spoke. "We should take the long way around this time, last week I thought I saw signs of someone working on the tunnels we usually take. I couldn't make out exactly what it was for, but there were recent footprints and a few lines of spray paint." Fortunately, the activity was quite far from their home, or he'd have to start planning an exodus.

"The sewers are getting too crowded," Donatello groused. "We should charge an entry fee."

Before he could ponder that possibility, the spiral stairs gave way to footsteps with an uneasy, shifting creak as April made her way up to the apartment. She was naturally light on her feet, the lessons in ninjutsu making her lighter still, but he'd been trained well enough to sense the approach of a leaf on the wind. Or so went the colorful description of the skill, when Splinter had explained to them how well they would be required to use their sense of hearing.

It also helped that their own sense of hearing was more sensitive than human ears could achieve. This gave them a bit of an edge that they, to be honest, really needed. Not a lot of human enemies had been taught as well as they had, but a human with similar training would also have greater speed, flexibility, and agility, if not strength. They could use all the extra benefits they could come across- better hearing, inherent body armor, and although they'd lost the bulk of a normal turtle's amphibious qualities, they were still better suited to water than any human.

April had hardly chosen her movements for stealth, though. This was her store, her home, and she moved confidently through her spaces. She saw no need to hide. She was allowed that privilege.

"Hey, guys," she said, brushing fine strands of hair from her face. It was coming undone from the ponytail, he noticed, trails and tendrils of red hair escaping to hang in her face or curl, lightly, around her head. "Thanks a bunch to whichever one of you took care of the problem with my basement. What did you do to him, by the way? He came running out of that door like a bat out of hell. Scared Mrs. Cripsley out of her wits. I had no idea what to tell anyone- I mean, how do you explain that?"

"Don't look at me," Donatello said, raising his hands in a gesture that denied his participation in this particular event, "I left all the miscreant-persuasion up to Leo today."

Leonardo waved a hand self-deprecatingly. "He didn't need very much persuading. Basically, all I did was pop out of the shadows and say 'boo'. I don't think you'll have to worry about him visiting you anymore, though."

If not out of fear for the strange man lurking in the basement, then out of embarrassment: both for having been caught sneaking around and for leaving the store at a dead run. That was, if he was interpreting the teenaged male psyche right. Having been one himself, he was fairly sure his guess was on the mark.

April sighed happily, a small, gusting sound. "Thank goodness for that. I suppose a full-fledged fight would have been harder to explain away."

"Oh, by far," Leonardo said dryly.

"I don't know," Donatello looked thoughtful, but the quirk at the edge of his mouth betrayed his amusement, "I'm sure the customers can get rowdy over a nice antique telephone."

"You have no idea." April reached up and slid the ponytail out of her hair, smoothing the rest of it back with one hand, trying to regain some semblance of order to it. By the end of the day, it tended to look a mess. "I'm glad there are a nice handful of collectors around here, anyway. I think I make most of my money off of this shop just selling a few good, expensive pieces." She paused. "Like an artist. I think I might actually make more money than I do now if I _was_ an artist. Too bad I lack all the talent to be one." She tossed the joke out lightly, but he focused on the words and not the tone.

From what he knew of her, she had enough of an appreciative eye for beauty to be a decent photographer, but her real talents lay more in science and math than anything artistic. He couldn't really gauge ability fairly, as his brother was most likely the most brilliant scientist on the face of the earth, and he'd grown up watching him make leaps and bounds that present-day scientists were stumbling over, but April certainly seemed bright and competent enough. If anything, her former position as Stockman's lab assistant would make for an impressive resume. If she needed more money, there was no reason she couldn't get a better-paying job. He often wondered why she stayed a store owner. Certainly her enthusiasm for science hadn't wavered.

Leonardo got to his feet and leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Are you running low on funds?"

The look on her face registered only surprise, followed by rueful humor. "No, don't mind me. It's great, really. I think I just get into the silly habit of complaining about things that don't need fixed."

She looked down, briefly, and he caught the ghost of an expression pass across her face, too quick for him to decipher. He'd never been the best at reading emotions, had only became more adept with practice and necessity. Even then, the quieter expressions sometimes escaped him- the ones that didn't matter in an interrogation, but were crucially important in a personal discussion.

Fortunately, Donatello had enough intuition for the both of them. He leaned over and touched her shoulder, a gentle, supportive move that seemed to draw her muscles limp, causing her shoulders to slump forward and the curve of her chin to dip low. "Have _you_ spoken to Casey recently?" he asked.

April looked up and even Leonardo could read that look of pure stubbornness. "This isn't_ necessarily _about Casey," she said, without any real heat or bite. Then she shook her head in a sharp motion, more of a twitch than anything else. "Well, not entirely, anyway. It's not that I haven't spoken to him. We had a phone call the other day and talked. I went down to see him last week. I'm not pining, if that's what you think."

Leonardo, who hadn't been thinking much of anything because he wasn't aware there were real problems between those two to think about, mutely shook his head. Donatello merely waited for her to continue, which was foresighted of him, since he'd pretty much assumed that she had given the final word on the matter. He turned, giving his brother a look. _What is happening here that I'm missing?_

Donatello raised an eye ridge at him, shaking his head. _I'll tell you later._

"I just wish he was around more," April finally said, quietly enough that she might not have known she'd spoken aloud. "It might make things easier. To decide on, I mean. There's not much I can do with what I have right now. And-" she broke off the sentence with another shake of her head, looking like she was trying to clear the space in her head of something unpleasant. Her eyelashes hid whatever emotion she kept under lidded eyes, and she toyed idly with the necklace around her neck with nervously tugging fingers. "Well. We've had our days together."

The import in that statement had him looking over at Don again, who had his eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. The relationship between their two human friends hadn't been something they kept careful watch on, as sensitive and personal as it was. They knew the more obvious facts of it, like how long they'd been dating or when they were separated or when they were fighting, but they kept firmly out of the more private details. It wasn't that they hadn't know the two were working through things more slowly now, or that they were unaware that they were having difficulties. They had only guesswork going for them to determine why they'd reached that point, and it wasn't because Casey had gone to take care of an ailing mother.

They were, of course, both firmly of the opinion that if Casey had done anything to hurt April, he would be paying for it over a period of months. And they would most likely have his mom's support of that decision. It didn't look or sound like he'd done anything, but Leonardo's eyes narrowed instinctively anyway. Overprotective sibling habits were hard to break.

Meanwhile April hesitated in her recount, looking at them. "Nice try, guys. I am _not_ giving a dissertation of my love life to my brother figures. I don't even dissert my love life to my _actual_ siblings."

"Wouldn't dream of making the request," Donatello said, patting her on the shoulder. She smiled at him, half thankful and half self-recriminating, and the tension between them broke as easily as it had slipped in.

April seemed to toss the subject over her shoulder, brushing it off like unwelcome dust. "Well," she said, her smile bright and with a trace of brittleness he could only see since he was looking for it, "What are your plans for tonight? Because someone lent me this movie and I don't want to watch it alone. Too depressing." The conversation gradually broke into casual chatter, as if the three of them were trying to leave any shadows far behind them.

* * *

To be honest with himself, Leonardo sometimes felt like their lives moved too swiftly to be properly measured nowadays. And other times, he felt like the motion was far too slow to be perceived- time mainly passed in endless repetitions of scheduled events. They followed the same routine almost to the letter without really thinking of it, so today might as well be the same day as yesterday, or the day before that. And then, just to break up the semblance of a life they had, someone would throw a bomb into the mix and attack them or the city, and then it was time to fight again. Possibly die. They didn't live with that same clinging desperation that they did when they were younger: now, it was all about survival.

It was just. Two was such a small number, when one came to think about it. Unstable, almost. Teetering. Even a stool needed three legs to stand. It was important to think about that whenever they got reckless urges, or when they felt like they needed to make a stand. Important to remember how much it would cost to lose. So, they didn't get out too often anymore.

"I don't know everything about it, you know." Donatello pried a metal something half-covered in peeling red paint off a pile of indistinguishable mechanical scraps and turned it over in his hands, briefly. The motion probably looked thoughtless enough from an outside point of view, but Leonardo knew Donatello was quite capable of assessing the value of the parts in mere seconds. That one obviously wasn't worth salvaging, so he tossed it nonchalantly to the side.

Leonardo looked at him, a brief glance out of the corner of his eye. He was busy watching the slouching silhouettes of a couple of homeless from where they sat. One of them was atop an old dishwasher, thin shoulders hunched over in a faded and worn t-short, straggled hair that looked like ragged feathers tied back from his face. His profile was stooped, the lines of his face drooping down as he spoke to another man who passed him a green glass bottle, glinting yellow in the glow of a hastily-made fire.

The humans were at a closer distance than he was really comfortable with, and Leonardo's eye kept straying over to their corner to see if they were safely by their campfire. So far, so good. It wasn't that he seriously considered them threats (_at least not physically_) so much as sheer habit. 'Don't be seen' had ceased to be a rule: it was practically a way of life.

"About April," Donatello clarified, strapping on a bit of pointedness to the phrase that made Leonardo pull his attention towards the conversation at hand. "I don't know everything about what's going on between her and Casey. She drives over there to see him every couple of weeks, they call each other like usual, but recently she's been upset at him. And you know her; she keeps derailing what she's actually angry about into smaller problems, like his driving or her work."

He nodded vaguely: he was under the impression that April really _did_ get angry at Casey's driving. He'd hardly blame her for it. "How long has that been going on?"

Donatello picked up something else, inspected it, then pulled out a small screwdriver and started prying it apart. "I don't know. At least a month. She doesn't talk about it often, and this is the first time she's seemed so obviously affected by it." A piece of the object he was inspecting came away, and Donatello pried it gently off and shone a thin flashlight beam on the inside, taking out another tool to remove whatever was inside. "_I _only know because she talks more about him and most of those talks come out as rants."

Rants which probably occurred while Donatello was over there for a geek session over the latest tech news. Which made sense. April was always a bit more composed around him, more likely to let go and speak more personally around his brother. That might be because they shared a transcendental nerd bond, in which they were one step of genius ahead of actually being able to contact each other telepathically, but only over hardware, or it might because Leonardo's personality had the tendency to intimidate. Either way, Donatello was the first one to know when April was having some life crisis, and Leonardo typically stood by for status reports every now and then.

"Is it something to worry about?" he asked. He didn't honestly think they'd end up fighting each other, or that Casey would hurt April, or vice versa. It was a question of whether or not she would take the break-up well. Casey was a constant in her life, and losing an element of stability (_that had lasted over fifteen years_) was sure to cause anyone some emotional pain.

"Not at the moment. And even if they do end up breaking it off, I don't think she'll get too depressed over it. She's April, she'll move on."

That said, Donatello pulled out a metallic chip from whatever it was he was looking at and turned it over for observation in the bright, thin beam of the flashlight. It glinted an interesting blue-silver in the pinpoint glow, a tiny gleam between his brother's fingers. "Hm. Well, that's better than nothing." Donatello tucked it into a small, plastic sleeve and got to his feet, adjusting the strap of his duffle bag.

"Got what you wanted?" he asked, since it had only been about two hours, and that was a long enough trip for anyone's standards.

Apparently not enough for Donatello, since he turned away from the piles of scrap metal with apparent resignation. "Enough. What's wrong? I thought your melodrama-"

"Televised serial retelling of Japanese fiction," Leonardo snapped out reflexively.

Too bad Donatello was just as fast with a comeback. "Heavy focus on romance and secret love affairs," he said, as if reciting off some mental checklist. "Love triangles. Imperial hijinks and angst-ridden heroic turmoil. I think I'm within my rights to call it a melodrama."

He gave him the flat stare that worked wonders on the criminal element and occasionally made some kind of impact on family members. Not that he was banking on it, though. "Did you wake up this morning with the intent to drive me towards fratricide? If so, I think I should have been given warning in advance."

"Oh, but I would hate to deprive you of the thrill of spontaneity. Meanwhile, when are they going to find out that the Emperor's son is actually Genji's? And will it involve exciting mood music?"

"Don," Leonardo said with the inner tranquility of one who has been long tormented by swarms of younger siblings. Then realized he didn't have anything to say to that, mainly because yes, that episode was coming up, and yes, the preview had deliberately showcased the mood music. Damn him.

"Hm?" his brother asked, in that tone that meant that he knew damn well Leonardo didn't have a good response.

"_All_ television shows have mood music," he said, finally, and then glanced back over to where the pair of homeless men had drawn a small crowd of four or five. He couldn't see any weapons on them, which wasn't proof positive against the possibility that they might be carrying them concealed. The fire was considerably larger now, sending a golden-red wash of light over the bedraggled clothing of the people huddled around it.

"They're not a threat, Leo." Donatello sounded exasperated. "Stop glaring over there as if you expect them to become an angry mob."

"They _are_ a mob," he explained, as he turned his head back towards his brother, "Angry or not." And humans. Deceptive because they could be anything, from anywhere, and still pass for normal. A group of humans could be anything, from tourists to terrorists.

Donatello snorted. "All I have to say is that it's going to be a pretty sad day if we fall to an ambush of homeless people armed with cheap liquor bottles and a broken chair. Hand me the bag and we can get going, although why you want to leave so early is beyond me. I hope it's not out of fear for the incoming hobo uprising."

Why anyone would want to stay any longer in a dump heap after pawing through rubbish for hours was also beyond his own mortal ken. One would think that Donatello would have collected enough mysterious chunks of metal, wire, and tubing to last for a good three days. He didn't bother pointing that bit out, though, because he knew it would lead to an hour-long dictation on the quality of materials and the time it took to find the aforementioned materials and how crucial they were to quality of life factors, such as air conditioning and toasters. The toaster was often broken. He couldn't think why, since they rarely had toast. It was one of life's many mysteries.

"No, I just wanted to fit in some meditation time before watching TV," he said, eying him pointedly.

Donatello, not noticing, simply nodded in friendly disinterest. His attention was firmly directed at his new acquisitions. Leonardo sighed at his brother's selective hearing, and then tried to make the next comment more obvious.

"I was hoping we could _both _fit in some meditation time," he specified, folding his arms.

This time, the comment managed to hit Donatello's radar. "Ah," he said noncommittally.

And that was it. The kind of response that neither confirmed nor denied his willingness to spend time meditating. At least, Leonardo thought, when Donatello wanted to say absolutely nothing, he didn't waste a lot of words doing so.

"You haven't done it in a long time," Leonardo reminded him. "You need to keep practicing the skills you have, and meditation is an excellent way to relax and center yourself." This was true. He often spent free time that way, when there wasn't anything else for him to do and the day had been especially stressful. "Besides, we haven't done it together in a while, either. It's always nice to synchronize."

A teasing smile tugged at the corner of Donatello's mouth as he took in that statement. "What's the matter? Getting lonely in the astral plane?"

"Sometimes," he said, seriously, and watched Donatello squeeze his eyes shut for a moment in pained frustration. It took him about a second and he was obviously thrown off by the sincerity of his response, which was what Leonardo had actually been counting on.

Meanwhile, Donatello was narrowing his eyes at him. "Christ, Leo, you can't just decide to be heart-wrenchingly earnest out of nowhere. How do you even manage to _do_ that tone of voice convincingly? It's unfair."

He just gave him a look that, he hoped, fully communicated his sincerity.

And received another incredulous stare for it. "Don't do that look."

That look was _epic_. He'd worked on it for years. It perfectly mixed expectation, disappointment, and a sense of the last, lingering hope that the recipient of the look would go along with what he wanted. Typically, April buckled in seconds. Donatello was a bit more difficult, but in the end, he would fold.

And fold he did, throwing his hands in the air in a dramatic gesture that seemed to implore the heavens for strength. "Fine," Donatello said, talking more to the air than to Leonardo's actual face, "Fine. Meditation. I'll join you for an hour, and then resume my typical night-time schedule. You shouldn't be making imploring faces at me, Leo. You're far too old for them."

"I'm only too old for them when they stop working," he said, smiling smugly at his success.

He didn't tell Donatello this, but it wasn't that he felt lonely so much as felt disconnected.

It wasn't at all that it was lonely on the astral plane, since his state of mind there was so far beyond the ability to be 'lonely', or many normal emotions one felt outside of that realm. It was more that he missed the sense of closeness that came with meditating with his brothers- one of them was long gone, and the other was long past the point where Leonardo could talk to him or meet with him, although he hadn't entirely given up on meditation either. Once in a very long, long while, Leonardo would be able to sense him, just a vague, familiar, flickering sensation out of reach. And even so, he had to concentrate especially hard to reach even that briefest mental touch. Raphael would always respond with a 'touch' back, hesitant and clumsy, and then withdraw completely.

There were times, many years ago, when the four of them together felt like a linked chain, something seamless and tightly-bound. It was like they could meld almost effortlessly into something so connected it was hard to tell where it began or ended, a comforting force of strength and stability. That was what he missed. Something he never came close to feeling again, even once.

* * *

On the way back, they checked out the area in the sewer that looked like it was being worked on. It was a bit more touched-up than it had been when Leonardo first stumbled upon it: the marks on the walls were out a farther distance than they had been before, and along with footprints, there were a few pieces of evidence of human occupancy: a few empty water bottles, some cigarette butts, bits of plastic, and a dead flashlight. Aside from that, they couldn't get much of a grasp on what people were doing here aside from making illegible marks on the walls and littering.

"Could be anyone," Donatello said. "Sewer maintenance, construction crew, or even a group of teenagers with a poor grasp of graffiti. I can't actually pinpoint what's happening unless I get more evidence. I _hope _it's not teenagers. They can be downright obnoxious. But, still. Easy to frighten away. Clean-up crews are a bit more difficult."

"We'll stay away from the area for now," Leonardo decided. "I'll come back in a few days to see if anything's changed. The most that comes out of it will probably be us changing our route to the dump. This place is far enough away from home that the likelihood of them spotting us is minimal."

"Hm. Sounds like a plan." Donatello frowned as his shell cell began beeping, and reached down to grab it from his belt. Snapping it open with an easy flick of his wrist, he pressed a few buttons. The screen lit up with a few lines of data, and he narrowed his eyes, expression going quietly grim. "Interesting," he stated in a smooth, quiet tone.

That tone of voice was never a promising start. Where some people yelled or cursed, Donatello merely went cool. "What?" he asked, feeling the muscles in his shoulders tense.

"The perimeter alarm for the old location has been triggered again," Donatello said, watching the shell cell as if awaiting something. A fuzzy video image came into view, showing a darkly-shadowed figure walking hesitantly around the location, heading immediately to the wall. The video was made more confusing by its small size- they couldn't very well make out what the person was doing, or what their movements signified.

Donatello looked at him, gesturing at the image with a quick jerk of his head. "Should we go?"

If they started there now, they still probably wouldn't arrive in time to catch him. Of course, it all entirely depended on what exactly he was looking at that area for. It could very well be connected to possible rebuilding in this area. He didn't want to rush over if it turned out to be an unnecessary expenditure of energy and a plain out waste of time. "Well, what does it look like he's doing?" Leonardo asked, "Does he appear to be studying the area for anything in particular, or-"

He was cut off as the phone beeped once more, this time in a different pattern of shriller noise. Donatello's mouth tightened and he looked sharply back at the image on the phone, his expression both intense and shocked.

Leonardo followed his gaze to the flickering, tiny view of the person at the wall where the entrance to their old lair lay. "And what does _that_ noise mean?"

Donatello clicked the shell cell shut with a swift, sudden gesture. "It means," he said, shoving it hastily in his belt, "That we'd better get over there. Whoever that is just got through the security."


	6. something that was left behind

**Ouroboros Complex**

**By: **Serendipity

**Chapter Five: **_something that was left behind_

_

* * *

_

The most alarming thing they noticed about the scene of the 'break-in' was that the door did not, in fact, look broken into. As a matter of fact, after their long, rushed trek to catch the intruder before they had time to do whatever they expected to do with their old, abandoned lair and leave, they found the door slightly ajar. This was amazing because the door was hidden cleverly within the grooves of the old brick and cement, and in order to open it, one first would have to type in the number code into the keypad. In order to access the keypad, someone would have to be able to find the correct pipe to pull down to activate the release for the compartment.

That said, the odds of anyone being able to breeze past Donatello's system were approximately slim to none. That also said, it looked very much as though someone had done it. The door was now shut, with no signs of it having been tampered with. He pulled on the exposed pipe, opening the compartment that held the keypad, and whipped out his shell cell. Using an attachment, he checked it over to see if anyone had made an attempt to brute force entry, and found no sign of that method, either. Whoever had entered had known the passcode right off the bat, rather than needing to try multiple combinations before achieving it.

"Whoever it is, they entered the code flawlessly," he said. "Someone either gave them information, or they gathered it themselves." Or they could have known it all along, but it was unspoken that they evaluate the situation expecting the worst.

Leonardo narrowed his eyes and nodded at the door, signaling that Donatello should open it. He entered in the code, and the door slid open seamlessly as ever, without a hint of it having been damaged or otherwise tampered with. The now-open doorway led into stale air and dimly-lit darkness. Whoever was in there had managed to turn something on, if not the main lighting system.

Next to him, Leonardo drew a sword and readied himself to enter, shifting his stance into something more solid, lowering his center of gravity. "What do you think?" he asked, his tone no more than a breath of a whisper.

Donatello followed his lead and drew his bo staff, keeping one hand on the button that held the door open for more than one person to enter. He shook his head at the question. "The only people I know who could do this would be Casey, April, or Raphael." He drew his mouth into a bitter line. "Since Casey and April would probably call beforehand, and Casey's too busy helping at home to come back and revisit someplace he knows we don't live in, that takes them out of the equation. And Raph-"

Well, he wasn't going to allow himself that hope. Not for someone who'd already left them for years on end, whose infrequent messages home consisted of sentences of vague information. Raphael simply didn't care enough about them to pay them a visit, no matter how poorly-planned and brief. The possibility was there that he'd simply attempted to slip in silently and unannounced, not planning on seeking them out after visiting the old lair, but that didn't sound like him, either. Or it did, but he was simply refusing to allow himself to think of the possibility, because there lay danger of more disappointment.

He realized he'd allow himself to trail off when he caught Leonardo's expression of knowing concern. Taking a breath, he continued his sentence. "Raph isn't likely to come here," he finished. None of them were, really. Not anymore. Too many memories, pleasant or otherwise, weighted the atmosphere. While Raphael didn't follow them in everything, even he must have felt the same mixture of nostalgia and grief that kept them from entering.

"So, most likely an intruder with information," Leonardo said, turning the conversation back towards a more businesslike keel, much to Donatello's relief. "Dated information, but more than he should have, nonetheless."

At Donatello's nodded assent, he turned back to the open door and passed cautiously through, making no sound to alert whoever it was inside- not that the two of them made much noise when they walked anymore. Silence was practically instinctive, hammered into them from years on ninjutsu training and practical lessons learned in combat. Now, it was purposeful if they left footfalls. With a pause to glance quickly behind him at the still-abandoned sewer tunnels, (_yup, still empty_), Donatello followed his lead.

The sound of shoes scuffing against linoleum led them to the kitchen, which happened to be the source of the light. It was an open room, walled only on two sides, so they could see the outline of the person who'd broken in, back-lit so he looked like a moving shadow. As they watched, he raised a camera to his eyes, adjusted it, and clicked, brightening everything with a sudden flash. Their intruder was snapping pictures, which meant photographic evidence that they'd have to collect. Brilliant. At least there appeared to be only one of them. Possibly someone sent with the passcode (_how they managed to retrieve that, Donatello would have liked to know_,) and told to gather information on the inside of the lair, for whatever reason. They didn't look like they were carrying weapons, but that wasn't always visibly apparent.

Donatello would have liked to make a sardonic comment on henchmen these days, but they were supposed to be in stealth mode, and also, the intruder turned around. His breath caught at the sight of his face, and after that, he was too busy being surprised to remark about the quality of burglars.

After so much time spent studying him on camera, he was fairly unmistakable. Their mystery intruder was none other than the boy who'd attempted a basement break-in at April's shop. Apparently, the kid wasn't as much of an innocent, bumbling trespasser as he'd given them the impression of being.

This would, of course, mean that they had to chalk another point up for Leonardo's overwhelmingly sensitive sixth sense for trouble. All of this meant that he was going to have to consider that his brother might actually be somewhat psychic, at least as far as anything negative went- attacks, spies, danger, all of that fell under Leosense. The rest was unfathomable to him, seeing that it was probably too close to good news, and heaven forbid they get any of that.

Donatello gave Leonardo a searching look, trying to measure his reaction to Mystery Boy's presence. His eyes were narrowed, calculating- probably going over the mental list of possibilities that the kid's reappearance had just opened. He gave him a quick tap on the shoulder and gestured at the kid with his thumb. _What now?_

In response, he got a short motion of one hand, a quick cut through the air. _Don't do anything yet. We watch. _That 'said', Leonardo soundlessly moved closer to the kitchen, keeping his blade drawn, the weapon poised so that it wouldn't reflect light and alert the intruder to his proximity. Clearly he was classifying the kid once more under 'possible threat', which meant that his bo staff was in hand as well. Fortunately, wood didn't have the reflection issues that metal did.

As they watched, the kid squinted at a far wall and aimed the camera again for another shot. "Seems like…a kitchen," he muttered under his breath, cradling the camera in his hands with a sense of indecision. "That's kind of an anticlimax after the sci fi door, but here it is. A kitchen. I wonder if it was for workers or something."

At that comment, the kid traced the empty space where their fridge used to be, as if drawing an outline of the machine with his hands, or like he was merely touching a ghost of it, half tangible. They'd moved the fridge out with the rest of the belongings they'd decided to take with them when they moved, hauling it onto the back of the sewer sled and tying it down. If the lights were on, they'd be able to see the tracks in the floor where they moved it, dragging across linoleum and cement.

Usually, Donatello made a concerted effort _not_ to think of the past, and tried to maintain a present-framed mindset as much as possible, letting his thoughts wander, if they had to, off to the near future and nowhere past the span of years. But sitting here in this place where memories weighed so heavily it felt as though they had actual physical form, as though they could leave marks on him from where they rested on his shoulders…avoidance was impossible. He shut his eyes, briefly, against the ebb of memories, and opened them to see Leonardo looking at him with an unreadable expression, the lines of his face barely discernible in the shadows they were clinging to.

He felt a stab of bitter resentment towards the place itself, for harboring so much of the past that it was suffocating and another for the kid who'd dragged them in here with them. Of all the places in the entire sewer system of New York this brat had to break into, it had to be their own personal mausoleum. That was just the way their luck ran, in a series of convenient train wrecks: Murphy's Law.

And Leonardo was still giving him a look, probably of the concerned variety that asked if he was okay. He answered it with a shrug, brushing off the attempt at reassurance. Even if he wasn't fine about this, there wasn't much he could do about it. Emotional discomfort weighed even less than physical discomfort when they were trying to keep their lives safe.

Across the room, the kid had moved on past the kitchen and was feeling around on the walls for possible light fixtures, muttering to himself and sending the beam of his flashlight out in erratic circles. They dodged aside a few times as the beam of light rested on their location, remaining unsuspected and unspotted. Whoever he was, he certainly hadn't been given any briefing on the fact that there might be ninjas dwelling here, something that was a little reassuring. Their more dangerous enemies knew what they were and their skills, and would most likely send someone with that knowledge. Unless they were relying on the fact that he was a child, and therefore more likely to be spared by people well known to be merciful.

And from that line of thought would be unleashed a hundred hordes of 'unless' and 'possibly.' Donatello shook his head. All of that would be circular thinking and not very helpful to the situation at hand. Better to just keep the conspiracy theories to Leonardo for now. He was much better at them, anyway. In any case, once this was over, he was fairly sure they'd be having some kind of meeting of the minds over the far too convenient presence of this kid in their lives.

Meanwhile, the kid managed to find a folding chair by running into it in the darkness, sending it toppling over with a resounding clatter.

"Clumsy, isn't he?" Don said, under his breath. Speaking didn't present a detection problem in the case of mere whispers, especially not when the target was making more noise than he ever could. "You'd think they could find someone who doesn't trip over everything."

Leonardo made an amused sound in the back of his throat. "So hard to find good help these days."

The chair made a teeth-grinding sound as it was dragged back up and leaned against the wall, presumably out of the kid's way, although Donatello bet he'd find some way to bark his shin against it later this very trip, the way things were going. That task accomplished, and all hearing creatures in the room having been deafened, the kid shifted his backpack and shuffled through it, making more noise as the objects within knocked into each other. After a few seconds, he pulled out a laser tape and aimed it at the far wall, sending a pinpoint of red light out as the device measured the distance.

They shared a glance at that. There were several reasons they could think of for wanting measurements of a room, and none of them meant anything good for their safety.

Of course, this was a compromised location in any case- they'd been gone from it for years, keeping it relatively unguarded too long for them to think that none of their enemies had managed to locate it. It was also, fortunately, completely abandoned by them and their friends. Still, recent activity and subsequent threat of renewed interest in them from any possible enemy was worrying.

The kid finished making measurements, drawing in his breath when he saw how large the place was. It _was _quite spacious, something most humans probably wouldn't attribute to any area in the sewers. They tended to think of it as a series of small tunnels- some crawlspaces, some large enough to walk in, but nothing the size of a human house. This boy may or may not be a bit more well-traveled than others, but gauging by his reaction, it was more than he'd ever seen. Which was yet another relief, considering.

"So," the kid said, stretching out the word. His voice sounded nervous in the pitch-darkness. "I have no idea what I have here. Kitchen, folding chairs, and…" he swung his flashlight in a random direction again, picking up the staircase in its beam, "…And stairs. Also, science fiction secret entrance door."

Donatello rolled his eyes. It was bad enough that he made too much noise walking around, but he had to talk to himself, too. At his side, Leonardo gave him a look; eye ridges raised mock-incredulously, the comment left unsaid but still clear enough: 'and this person broke through your security exactly _how_?'

"Kind of like an underground building," the kid was saying, "Doesn't seem too old, really. Also, this could house, like, fifty homeless people."

Upon closer inspection, they could see he was speaking into some kind of recording device, which meant that he at least wasn't muttering to himself in the dark about the obvious for no apparent reason. "Could be a hobo hotel," the kid added, and Donatello quietly snorted at the description. Either completely clueless, or played a very convincing impression of it. He was leaning heavily towards 'unwitting tool' at this point, or at the very worst, someone's hired info-gatherer who was lacking crucial information himself.

He looked at Leonardo, gesturing at the kid with a quick nod of his head. _Should we commence interrogation now, or do you want to spend more time watching him aimlessly wander?_ Not that watching his aimless movements wasn't fascinating, but it seemed clear to him that they'd watched him long enough to ascertain his objective here- at least, so far as they could by observation alone.

In lieu of a response, Leonardo sheathed his weapon (unnecessary in this case,) and started forward with the swift, purposeful step of someone about to pounce on the unsuspecting.

The unsuspecting target in question was a few feet from the far wall, and quite clearly didn't see it coming when he was suddenly grabbed by the upper arms and slammed against a wall by a near-invisible attacker in a single, swift motion. It was a move intended to shock and frighten and accomplished this feat quite effectively, with their intruder letting out just one half-strangled cry before being cut off by his back hitting the cement wall.

Not hard enough to do anything but bruise, though- neither of them were interested in actually hurting kids. So far, everything they did would be meant as a warning.

Shocking him also had the happy effect of getting the kid to drop his flashlight, which fell to the floor with a clatter and rolled to a stop, illuminating the area around their feet level. Donatello pushed it aside, spinning it around to face the wall, where it wouldn't make it possible for the kid to catch a glimpse of _what _exactly had found and 'attacked' him. Dealing with questioning a hysterical kid was difficult enough without adding that extra dollop of human panic.

Donatello headed for the kid's backpack, which had been dropped to the floor when Leonardo had grabbed him. It was partially open, and a few objects, barely visible in the almost pitch-black, lay scattered nearby. He withdrew his own flashlight from a pocket in his belt, and proceeded to shed some light on the situation, picking up what looked like a box of chemical ice packs- the kind that activated by popping the plastic barrier inside the bag to provoke the endothermic reaction.

Probably part of a first aid kit. Nothing overtly suspicious about _that, _first aid was an entirely legitimate thing to want with you when wandering around the sewers. He slid them to the side and began efficiently rifling through the pack.

Behind him, Leonardo had begun questioning. It was more of a distraction technique than anything else, since neither of them expected accurate or helpful information from a terrified teenager. That, they'd get from the tracking device he intended to plant on the backpack, as well as any possible information he managed to extract from the pack itself.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Leonardo asked, in his steel-cold, 'interrogating the prisoner' voice. The effect was lost on the kid, who was busily writhing in his vise-firm grip and yelling to be let go, he just wanted to go home, and to take anything they wanted, he wouldn't tell the cops. Leonardo clamped one hand over his mouth to quiet the noise, still supporting his body a good foot off the ground with his other arm.

"I said," he repeated patiently, "_What are you doing here_?" The kid, whose mouth was obstructed at the time by his hand, chose to say nothing. Instead, he made a vague whimpering sound, which wasn't really helpful to the questioning.

Leonardo gave an impatient sigh. "Alright. I'll remove my hand, and I expect you not to scream. If you do scream, it will be very unpleasant for you. Am I understood?"

Donatello wasn't in the position to see in what way their captive responded, but it must have been a yes: Leonardo uncovered his mouth and the kid made a quick gasping sound, like he'd been holding his breath. Probably had been out of sheer terror.

"Now. What are you doing here?" Leonardo asked. "And think carefully about what answers you give me." He punctuated that comment by dragging the kid further up the wall, the implied threat clear. (A threat he wasn't likely to carry out, but intimidation seemed to work well enough on this particular kid- more sign that he was just someone's tool, not in any way threatening on his own.)

"I-I was just looking around." His voice sounded like his mouth was dry. Unsurprising, since fear tended to do that to a person.

"And while you were 'looking around', you just happened to stumble upon the concealed door and bypass the security?" There wasn't any more skepticism that could possibly be packed into Leonardo's tone. There was a short pause after that question, which Donatello took to mean that their mystery intruder was spending some time trying to think of a feasible excuse for his amazingly suspicious actions without making them known as obviously suspicious. Good luck with that one.

The kid finally seemed to come to the inevitable conclusion that there wasn't anything he could say to justify or excuse the ability to open a code-locked hidden door, so he ended up muttering a "Yes?" that sounded much more like a question than any kind of statement.

"Yes," Leonardo said, flatly. Donatello turned to look at the scene, and Leonardo had leaned just a few inches closer to the kid's face, eyes narrowed, his mouth a tight and uncompromising line. It made him wonder what sort of effect it would have on Leo's 'victim' if there was just a little bit more light in the room. "I don't believe you," he said slowly, using a little more force. "You didn't just 'happen by' the exposed pipe, and you couldn't have just stumbled on the entrance code. What are you doing here?"

This time, he tightened his grip on the kid's arms and shook him, smacking him back against the wall a second time with the muffled, clattered sound of flailing arms hitting solid concrete. He doubted that Leonardo had hit him hard enough to break bones, but the bruises would be impressive, and judging by the cry of pain, it hurt plenty. It also had the effect of turning the kid into a stammering mess for a few seconds, before Leonardo jerked him closer and demanded an answer _now._

"I don't know! I'm sorry!" the kid said, hysterics stuttering over his words and making them hard to make out at first. "I just pulled on the thing and- I don't know, I was just goofing around!"

As the kid got to babbling a similarly unbelievable explanation about 'just guessing' the code, Donatello turned his attention back to the backpack, sifting through the more mundane items to try and search for something incriminating.

So far, all he'd managed to find was a camera, a first aid kit, the laser tape, and a little pocket GPS- the cheap kind that tracked about 9000 miles. Perfect tool for urban exploration, or someone who made a hobby of trawling the sewers. That, and a bent piece of rebar that he concluded, after a couple of seconds inspection, was supposed to be an impromptu manhole key. Still, that GPS was the highest level of tech to be found in the backpack- the rest of the contents involved scrap paper, candy wrappers, and a water bottle. Nothing at all that would suggest he worked with anyone higher up the criminal food chain than maybe a gang.

"How did you find out about this place?" Leonardo was asking calmly, still holding the kid in a vise grip.

The response was in the rushed, heavy tones of someone in the throes of deadly terror. "I don't know," the kid said, shaking his head and trying to press further against the wall, "I don't know. I mean- I don't know, I was just looking around! I didn't know anyone was going to be here, I swear!"

That seemed to be the bulk of his responses so far- deny everything. It was a common enough tactic for less well-trained sneaks or even a hapless kid someone gave money to so they'd check out the area.

That denial of knowing anyone was living here was probably truthful, as evidenced by his behavior when they arrived and watched him, and the fact that he hadn't seemed to have brought any weapons with him. Anyone who'd been _told_ about the possibility of them still occupying this area would probably have come prepared with a gun, at least. This meant that whoever had sent this kid was aware they'd vacated. So what was the possible gain of exploring an abandoned area?

Leonardo glanced over at him, and he shrugged at the backpack. _Nothing useful in there. _He held up the tiny tracking device to indicate he was getting ready to attach it, and unzipped a front pocket to place it in. He doubted that the kid would be observant enough to notice the transmitter, which was about the size of a 357 battery, but if someone more experienced searched his pack, he'd prefer it be well-hidden enough to escape detection. Donatello tucked it carefully under a seam and started zipping the pocket shut again as his brother wrapped up their short interrogation.

"I didn't know anyone was in here or anything, I swear," the kid kept saying, losing coherency again as fear made him speak too quickly, "I don't know, the lights were off and it looked deserted, I'm sorry, I won't come here again. Do you want my stuff? You can take my stuff, I won't tell anybody-"

Leonardo silenced the endless flow of pleading with another quick shake. "Don't come here again," he said, in a tone that would be more suitably used for a death threat.

"I won't-"

"If you do," Leonardo added, running right over his response, "We will _find_ you. And the result won't be pleasant." He leaned just a few inches closer. Proximity always raised the terror bar just a notch. "Do you understand me?"

The kid nodded hurriedly, trying his best to jerk his head away. Since his head was pressed up against the wall, it was only accomplishable by merging into the concrete. That didn't keep him from trying his best to keep back from the madman holding him aloft, writhing and struggling in Leonardo's grasp.

He needn't have bothered: with his threat over with, Leonardo released the kid and let him fall to the floor. Which he did: in a surprised drop and graceless tumble of limbs and sharp cry of pain. This managed to make it perfectly clear that, among other things, this kid didn't know how to fall, either.

That took out any kind of trained fighter from their list of possible suspects- not that it was an all too likely concern to begin with. The kid scooted away from their general direction, scrambling wildly, and then made a startled, pained sound when he moved his left ankle. Donatello glanced down at it, and from the way he was holding himself and the sudden pallor of the kid's face when he moved the ankle, it was either sprained or broken. Terrific. Definitely not any kind of trained fighter. A trained fighter might have feigned being unable to fall properly, but wouldn't have gone so far as to allow injury to such a crucial area of the body.

Donatello, crouched near the bag and subsequently the out-of-commission flashlight, gave Leonardo a look that read: _What? Did you really have to break his ankle, too?_ Threats were all well and good, but physical violence to that degree seemed to be crossing some kind of line in this case.

His brother returned the look with an exasperated shrug, spreading his hands as if to communicate how totally innocent he was of any intent to break any kid's ankle, and for god's sake why couldn't people find operatives who knew how to fall.

The conversation that followed was mainly expressed through body language and hurried glances as the kid tried to work his way over to the dim ring of his flashlight pressed against the wall, and it consisted of him giving Leonardo some stern, irritated glances because now they had to follow a _limping _human kid through the sewers to track which path came to get here, and normal humans were slow enough.

Leonardo responded with glances and elaborate hand gestures that conveyed the feeling that he should really get over it already. Some things had to be sacrificed for the sake of the mission. Donatello only wished that it didn't always have to be his free time on the block. It wasn't as though he had much to fill the time with, but it was still very much _his_ time. (It was a fairly petty complaint, but made in the safety of his own head, so he figured that was alright.)

Meanwhile, the boy wonder finally made it to his flashlight and grabbed it like it was a weapon or, possibly, a security blanket. He faced it aimlessly at the darkness, searching with frantic, sweeping gestures, his hands shaking. The sweep was so quick and erratic that Donatello decided even if he'd managed to catch a glimpse of them in the flashlight beam, he wouldn't have been able to interpret what they were.

"Hello?" the kid said, quietly, "You still there?" When that got no response, he made a pretty impressive effort to haul himself to his feet, leaning his weight against the wall and using his good foot to support himself. He set his other foot down, hobbling a little, and sucked in his breath in pain.

"Definitely not Foot ninja," Donatello said to Leonardo in an undertone, masked by the sound of their hapless victim trying to find his backpack. They could handle pain far better than that.

Shrugging, Leonardo said in a tone equally low: "Could be a baby one."

Right. "You think Karai would allow _that_ in?"

They both considered the kid, who was at this very moment a few inches away from falling right over his backpack while looking for it. As far as appearances of helplessness went, he was pitch-perfect.

"Probably not," Leonardo said, just as the kid found his backpack via his injured foot and hissed a curse under his breath. "But someone must have. Hopefully we'll find out who it was specifically."

And hopefully, but not probably, it was someone with an interest in them that they could easily deal with or one that could potentially mean them no harm. There had been a well-connected, wealthy scientist at one point who'd managed to catch glimpses of them in some old video footage. She was, fortunately, no Dr. Abigail Finn with dangerous obsessions and ruthless persistence, and keeping her off their trail had been easily done. Those more harmless brushes with humanity, however, were far and few between as far as people seeking them out had gone.

* * *

As the kid pulled out his first aid kit a few 'safe' tunnel distances away from the Lair, they took note of the particular tunnels he was choosing to pass through. Some of these were going to have to be blocked up, in case he took up the idea of returning any time in the future, and they'd rather collapse something that wouldn't interrupt any crucial plumbing. While he applied a chemical cold pack to his ankle and muttered under his breath about 'stupid secret labs', they discussed possibilities.

"Do we really have to collapse one at all, though," Leonardo said, worrying away at the idea. "I have no idea how theoretically important some of these tunnels are, especially with recent projects developing nearby. We don't want anything that could cause undue attention to the area and ourselves."

"Right," he said slowly, keeping an eye on their target as he spoke- didn't want to lose track of where he was, and this had been a discussion to get lost in, so far. "But the site you noticed is a good distance away from this one, and could be unrelated. As far as areas to avoid destroying, there are some mains running her that we should avoid, but the tunnels I've indicated can be collapsed without problem."

"None of these tunnels are old and unstable enough to make a collapse seem natural, though," Leonardo mused, "It might be seen as suspicious if they're keeping an eye on this particular spot. I know this is the first spotting of human activity in years, but since he both got through our security and has also been linked to another one of our areas, I think we have need to be doubly cautious."

That certainly was the problem. This isolated incident was enough to inspire concern- anyone being privy to information that should never have been leaked, no matter how outdated, was alarming. But the fact that he was aware of more than one area they frequented raised the stakes a bit, especially since April was involved. They didn't have enough family to be comfortable with the possibility of losing one of their own.

"Understandable," he said, finally. "However, our options for blocking those tunnels are limited. We could weather the tunnel ourselves and make it look as though it collapsed due to damage from heavy rain, though. Or maybe have it look as though the builder's job was faulty- tamper with some of the supports."

"That sounds doable," Leonardo said, glancing to the side and watching as the kid finished up with his first ice pack and cracked another one, wrapping it to his ankle with ace bandages and cringing all the while. The short trip here had seemed much longer than usual with him leaning so heavily against the walls, tripping occasionally as he put too much weight on what was certainly a sprain, if not a break.

Donatello sighed. "If you were going to feel guilty about it, why drop him to begin with? You should have known there would be a possibility of him twisting his ankle like that. Another one of your tests?"

"I didn't _mean_ to break his ankle," Leonardo protested.

"And he's not even wrapping it right," Donatello said, watching him wrap clumsily, a little too tightly. His fingers, he noticed, were still a little unsteady. Whether that was from pain, or fear, or a mixture of both, he couldn't tell. "What are they teaching kids these days? You'd think at his age they'd cover at least one class in basic first aid. How to make a sling, CPR, how to wrap your sprained ankle. Hopefully he stumbles into a clinic once he gets aboveground."

"If he can climb the ladder without breaking his other leg," Leonardo said, narrowing his eyes and casting a gloomy look upon the scene. "We might have to follow closely once he gets there."

Donatello made an amused noise. "You don't have the makings for a bad cop, Leo," he said. "Admit it. You're too much of a mother hen."

The remark seemed to glide merrily around Leonardo's humorless head. "I think training sessions with me should be more than enough to prove that false," he stated, lifting an eye ridge challengingly.

"True, but the time spent in between sessions really brings out your true qualities."

At that point, the kid seemed to decide that he'd spent enough time attempting to fix his sprain and that now was the time to get home before his ankle swelled so much it would have to be cut out of his sneakers- something that was possible and probably painful and made Donatello happy that they never wore shoes. He wobbled his foot a little, his expression tight and his mouth set against any involuntary cries of pain, and then set off again towards a path that was gaining familiarity in his mind as one of the more easily accessible entrances- the kind that April and Casey had used when visiting them at the old lair.

Leonardo, true to his word, moved in closer to the kid as he approached what was, presumably, the ladder that led him to his exit path. Looking up, Donatello could see the manhole cover was loose, set just a bit to the side so that a fingernail crescent of daylight shone down. Most likely set that way to make the kid's exit a bit easier. That particular manhole led up into a nice space between buildings, fairly un-inspected and safe from hapless pedestrians wandering by to stare at people crawling up out of the bowels of the city. Well chosen. Donatello considered exchanging the lid for one of the ones that bolted tightly in, then decided against it. Caving in a couple tunnels seemed like precaution enough without messing with the system aboveground.

As the kid laid his hands, tremulously, upon the metal rungs of the ladder, Donatello gave Leonardo a sharp look. _So, are you catching this kid when he invariably slips, or am I?_ The light issue was a problem, but it wasn't like they couldn't blindfold him if they needed to. The close physical proximity was going to be another problem- they didn't look human and they certainly didn't feel human either, and it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to realize the strangeness if they were being carried by one of them.

Leonardo stepped forward and accepted the risk, of course. Donatello was going to have to talk to him about letting him take some of the chancier jobs as well, but he had an inkling that he was taking this one on because the kid's injury was, technically, his fault.

"One thing's for sure," he said under his breath as Leonardo took the first step beneath the kid, who was shakily gaining some altitude, "You're definitely going to miss your soaps."

His brother shot him a quelling look just as the kid, predictably, put too much pressure on his left ankle and had his foot slip off the rung swiftly enough to set him off balance and send him falling back- straight into Leonardo's waiting arms. As it were. Although he was sure his fearless leader wouldn't want it phrased precisely that way, no matter how technically accurate the description was.

The kid, who'd let out a cry of mingled pain and alarm when his foot slipped off the rung, let in a sharp gasp at being caught by an unseen stranger, especially after it came on the heels of being attacked by an unseen stranger, and reacted like most people would in such a situation: by struggling and kicking and generally trying to escape. He'd also craned his head around to look at his captor, but Leonardo had taken care of that problem with a hand clamped firmly over his eyes.

"Look. I don't know if you realize how far up you are," Leonardo said, in his firm but quiet voice that was nevertheless far more effective than anyone else's loud shouting, "But do you really want me to drop you at this height?"

The kid made a sound that might have been a choked-back scream or a hysterical giggle. "Aren't you going to anyway?" he asked, clearly envisioning another broken ankle.

Sometimes Donatello really had to take some perspective on his life: here they were, trained warriors in ninjutsu, probably considered master-level in the martial arts of their choosing, spending their time terrifying stray kids. It was depressing.

His brother chose the least reassuring thing to say in response to that. "If I was going to drop you, I would have done so by now. Now, don't move."

"Why? You going to take my wallet after all?" the kid snapped, trying to shift into a more secure position- probably because at the moment the only thing holding him up was the mysterious possible-murderer in the sewers. He grabbed back on to the rungs, holding them in a white-knuckled grasp.

Leonardo chose to ignore the implied accusation and looped a length of cloth over the kid's eyes, effectively blindfolding him. He got a stuttered protest for that, but the kid wasn't about to let go of the ladder to try and take the thing off.

"H-hey! What are you doing?"

"Just keep going," Leonardo said, and while his brother was perfect at many things, most of them ninjutsu-related, he was really terrible at trying to be placating. The most he managed to get was something strict and firm, while still at a mild tone. It ended up sounding like a quiet order, which wasn't exactly trust-inspiring.

It seemed to have some kind of effect on the kid, though, who clutched at the ladder fearfully, then moved his good foot up a rung. He hesitated before taking the step that would require him to shift the other. "Can't move my foot," he muttered, a little sullen. Donatello stole another glance at it, but couldn't make out any noticeable swelling under the bandages and ice pack. Still, if he couldn't move it, it was probably more than mildly sprained.

The kid probably wouldn't make it out, but he could hear that extra touch of guilt in his brother's voice. "I'll help support it as you climb. This is why you shouldn't be exploring this area of the sewers. Not only is it dangerous by nature- crumbling supports, possible toxic fumes and sewage, slippery floors, but there are a lot worse people than us down here." Leonardo's tone became more pointed. "As you'll soon discover if you keep poking your nose in where it doesn't belong."

The only response to that was the kid shaking his head, as if in disbelief. Either at the description of the sewers, or at the fact that the possible madman living in the sewers was taking time out of his busy schedule to lecture him, especially since he'd been the one to break his ankle in the first place. Donatello felt like he would have personally been more amazed at the latter.

"…So, are you, like, secret agents or something?" the kid questioned nervously.

No response to that from Leonardo, who was pulling his closemouthed sphinx impersonation. "Just start climbing."

Somehow the kid mustered up the courage to take the first terrifying blind step, then the next, as Leonardo kept him from putting his weight on the injured foot. He hoisted the kid up out of the sewers with another warning to never ever come down there again, and then slid the cover shut with a sense of finality.

"Think he'll be back?" Donatello questioned, idly.

"Only if he's a glutton for punishment. I hope not, for his sake," Leonardo said, descending the ladder rungs and jumping down at the last few steps. "Check your tracker to see where he ends up. We can follow him from down here, and if he ends up anywhere unusual, we should check it out."

"And if he ends up in a residential area in the comparative safety of his own home?" he asked, taking out his shell cell and bringing up the tracking system. There it was, a nice little blinking dot of light headed across the grid. Slowly, but surely.

"Then we'll check the house."


	7. lay out the plans

**Ouroboros Complex**

**By: **Serendipity

**Chapter Six: **_lay out the plans_

_

* * *

_

Just as Donatello had predicted, the dot that signified the kid's backpack finally ended up in a residential area, sitting in one location. The kid had probably tossed it on the floor somewhere in his home and went to take care of his ankle. "All right," he said, considering the area through the open sewer grate. It wasn't anything impressive, just the typical sprawl of shops and apartment buildings, street lights blinking and cars heading through on their way to and from home. There was still quite a bit of pedestrian activity as well, as people walked across the streets and sidewalks to their homes or towards the subways.

"We can search his home a little later this evening, but we run the risk of waking up the people inside as we do so, and we don't know anything about the place yet," he considered. "But it will be easier for us to move around undetected at night. We could also wait to do this until tomorrow, when they've all left the house, but we can only do it within a certain parameter of time, and we might be detected by passerby. In my opinion, the best option would be searching at night."

"Agreed." Leonardo looked thoughtfully at the screen, still showing a stationary blinking light for the transmitter. "We should at least come back later this evening to run a recon of the area and make sure there is a secure sewer entrance near the house."

If there wasn't, the idea of going to the apartment in the afternoon would be shot. It didn't matter if they would be safer without the occupants, the risk of traveling through a residential area in near-broad daylight was too high. Both of them liked to grumble about how the population regularly tripled overnight in NYC, but the truth wasn't too far from that exaggeration- there _were _more people, and some of them would be bound to spot even two trained ninjas out of sheer dumb luck, if nothing else.

"So, there's the plan." Donatello took note of their coordinates, entering the location into his shell cell and then storing it neatly back in the compartment in his belt. That done, he started off the tunnel towards their lair- their actual home, not the old home they'd left behind to be roadblocked later. Leonardo's plan gave them a few hours to kill, as it was still quite some time before actual nightfall, and even then, the only safe time to search would be when most people were inside their homes, sitting in front of the TV or having dinner, or sleeping. Sleeping, of course, was preferable.

They _could _choose to sit out that time here, spending a couple hours in waiting, but he preferred not to sit idly if at all possible. Leonardo, though focused on his tasks to an obscene degree, was pretty much of the same mind as far as that went. Time was meant to be spent efficiently and productively, and not to be frittered away. He wondered why that need to spend time conservatively clung so close to his methods, even years after time began to be the only thing they had.

Also, he figured they should at least try to eat something before making any headway into infiltrating the possible enemy base, even if that enemy base was a pleasant family home. Especially if the enemy base was a pleasant family home. It wasn't as though they could ethically raid the fridge. He made sure to point that out, as well as the fact that they'd skipped a meal today, what with the trip to the dump followed by the immediate detour to seek out their latest stalker.

Leonardo jerked his shoulders in something too brief to be a shrug, exactly. "Sure," he said, as if turning the notion over, a suggestion to be added to some reformulated plan. "If you like. I'm not very hungry."

"Are you ever hungry?" he quipped. "Sometimes I suspect you've learned the ancient master trick of taking nutrients out of the air, Leo. It's just not natural."

Leonardo just looked at him, the corner of his mouth tucked into a half-smile. "Unlike some people, I don't spend so much time with my machines and papers that I forget to eat."

"…I'll admit you have a point."

There really wasn't a witty repartee he could toss back for that one, since it was mainly correct. He didn't do it all the time, of course, (of _course_,) but Donatello often let the time slip idly by when he was working; his mind was too focused on one project to even give anything else a passing glance. This led to him missing practice and meals and occasionally chat dates with April, which she let slide with the idea that he'd been called away by a crime spree or a ninja attack and not an attack of absentminded professor syndrome. This was an assumption he wasn't going to correct any time soon, since it made him look like less of a thoughtless jerk.

Besides, there was really only room for one thoughtless jerk in the family, and that position was fully occupied. Not that it was easy to tell, since the brother holding that office had left state years ago, racing out on a motorbike (_he'd built it for him, not that he cared, ungrateful bastard_), and dragging a lifetime of memories in his wake.

Memories again. He'd spent too much time in the old lair- hell, even a few minutes were too much time to stay there, with the past thick in the air, with heartbreak practically written on every wall. Donatello tried not to think of it, but the truth was, he was unsettled by their intruder's appearance in that old lair, their abandoned home, of all places.

Even taken apart, depersonalized when they removed their furniture and possessions with the first move, the structure of the place was enough to call forth thoughts of days past. The light in the kitchen, stripped of appliances and bare-walled, was still the same familiar florescence that Michelangelo (_god, mikey_) had complained about being too bright in the mornings. The couch they'd left behind, where he could almost see his brothers sitting at. And the door to Master Splinter's room, thin plastic masquerading as rice paper and wood, unopened. He'd shut down the automatic door after his death, closing his room for good. It made him wonder, almost morbidly, what he would see if he opened it.

He had to stop thinking about this. He wondered if there would ever be a time when he _could_ stop thinking about this. It had been years. Time was supposed to lend a sense of distance to pain, not emphasize the rift itself.

Without really meaning to, he let out a sigh- a sudden exhalation of breath, the kind that came when he was in pain and trying not to cry out.

"We could just seal the door shut, you know," Leonardo offered, in what would sound like a non sequitur to anyone overhearing their conversation, anyone who didn't know them as thoroughly as they did each other. A glance at him showed that although the words themselves were said lightly, the offer was made seriously. It wasn't as though they'd have anything to lose by doing it. Except, the act of sealing it, that sense of finality, was the only thing that gave him hesitation. It didn't make any sense to, really, since none of their dead stood a chance of returning- and the one who was living knew they didn't live there anymore. But, still.

"No," he said, "Caving in those tunnels should be enough." _Should _be. Hopefully _would _be. There shouldn't be any reasons for even a spy to go through a blockade for an abandoned living place. Hopefully closing up his path there would deter him from any further attempts to enter.

Leonardo looked contemplative, which meant that he was still considering the benefits of sealing it up after all. Like a tomb.

People sealed up tombs.

Donatello suppressed a shudder. Started back on the subject at hand, since anything was a more welcome topic than their old home and what was to be done with it. "I take it you want me to pack my bugging equipment," he said. "When we eventually manage to make a search."

Surveillance on a few of the rooms might be wise, especially since this was the second and most suspicious run-in they'd had with this particular human. He didn't expect they'd need to bug every room in the house- few shady deals were made in bathrooms or kitchens, for instance, but he certainly intended on keeping tabs on who the kid was talking to.

Might be a good idea to keep an eye of his internet activity as well, he thought. And then there was that memory card to be looked at. He was interested in what other pictures the kid had been taking, while searching the sewers.

Leonardo nodded. "Bugging, and should we decide to search at night," he paused, the hesitation implying that he was trying to speak of something he found distasteful, "…Something to help the family sleep a little deeper. If you can, Don. Don't bring what we usually use, though. Use something more gentle." His mouth quirked downwards as he spoke, and Donatello could understand why.

What he was obliquely referring to was, no doubt, some kind of sedative. They usually used those in gas form, as bombs, or as liquid, laced onto the edges of thrown weapons. They had to be powerful, strong enough to knock out an enemy in a very short amount of time, which meant they had some not-too friendly side effects once the victims woke up. Using sedatives against people, ordinary civilians who may or may not be guilty of nothing but living their everyday lives- that grated against the morals. Especially when they were being used against people sleeping in their beds. But it was a perfectly logical safeguard against being caught by light sleepers, and morals had to occasionally take a backseat to survival.

Still, Leonardo was right. Nothing he had would be appropriate to use against the family whose home they'd be invading. He'd have to take along some of the xenon solution he'd been working on. It was far gentler, and since it was side-effect free and in a gas form, it had the advantage of leaving no marks to show that they'd ever been tampered with.

The stuff wasn't easy to find, though. He had only a limited supply. "I have something," he offered. "It's not a drug I would toss around often, though. It's difficult to come by."

Leonardo nodded. "We shouldn't need too much. I doubt it will take us very long to search an apartment, no matter whose it is."

Also, he'd have a few days to sort it out. They'd be spending that time running surveillance on the apartment, finding out how many people lived there, what their nightly schedule was, when they went to bed, and if any of them ran a night shift. He fervently _hoped_ none of them ran a night shift. That would certainly put a great big roadblock in the plan. At best, they'd have to wait until the person in question left, sedate the others, and spend the rest of the night being extra cautious on the off chance that the night shifter would come strolling through the door.

"It's sad that we've come to this," Donatello said, jokingly, "Back in the day, we used to raid high tech security fortresses. Now, here we are, sneaking into a four bedroom apartment. I tell you, we're losing our touch."

"I would prefer," Leonardo said with great sincerity, "Sneaking into _any_ kind of apartment over the lair of a supervillain. Give me mediocrity any day over that. Less headaches, and I can escape with some of my dignity intact."

"Think of it this way. We might be getting the best of both worlds. We might be sneaking into the four bedroom apartment of a mad supervillain."

Leonardo shot him a sideways glance. "If that happens? I blame you." A pause. "Although I sincerely doubt that it is. They rarely seem to have any normal lives outside of cackling maniacally in fortresses somewhere. An apartment seems somewhat beyond their limited grasp. It _looks _like a normal building."

It really did. No one exited the place with furtive glances and hidden briefcases, none of them seemed to be discussing anything with each other aside from the occasional neighborly greeting, (_very rare_), and a quick scan of the building with the hologram-detection device he carried in his belt showed no sign of high-tech facades or cloaking devices. Looking at it, he was fairly positive that all it contained were rooms- kitchens and bathrooms and bedrooms, spaces for human beings to inhabit.

Which meant, according to their history as far as raiding locations went, they'd either come out of this feeling like they'd wasted a lot of time and energy searching some kid's house, or they'd stumble upon a lair of intricately-prepared, subtle villainy. Though not necessarily of the super powered kind. So far, he was thinking it was more likely to be an attempt at information-gathering from a party they'd had yet to meet or discover. There were too many people who knew about them. Too many people after them, out for revenge, tracking them down as monsters or specimens or merely for fun. Too many humans.

"Well, we'd better get prepared, then," Donatello said. His voice sounded weighted; a quiet, dry thing. He tried to sound more energetic. "Hopefully they don't waste too much security on their apartment- or the kid really is just a paid random Joe. We might be able to locate whoever sent him after us by tracking his email and monitoring any calls he makes." Which meant even more bugs. While he was at it, he might as well put a tap on his television and program it to say 'big brother is watching you'.

They chose a swifter way back to their home, cutting through tunnels and passageways with the ease of the well-traveled.

He still felt tired. Emotionally fatigued, rather. He hadn't known how affected he'd be by doing something as simple as walking through the doors, let alone watching light trace the outlines of a place he'd lived in once before. It could simply be pressure and release- he knew himself well enough to realize that his method of coping was to simply put memories away. Store them on a shelf. That only worked with the tamer ones, and some recollections fought harder than others to claw their way to the surface.

The first curling tendrils of memory were giving way to a stormy barrage: a constant stream of scents, sounds, instances. Things he'd rather keep...well, not forgotten, necessarily. But kept away so as not to distract. He gritted his teeth against them, pushing them firmly aside and trying to ignore Leonardo's concerned gaze. His brother probably had a different way of dealing with his ghosts.

When they found out who was responsible for sending the kid, he'd have to have a talk with them about boundaries.


	8. in the aftermath

**Ouroboros Complex**

**By: **Serendipity

**Chapter Seven: **_in the aftermath_

_

* * *

_

_It keeps me reeling_  
_Will I ever be the same?_  
_No I won't_  
_It's a cold day in a cold world._  
_I really wish I could have saved you._  
_But then who would have saved me from myself?_

-**'Ballad For a Dead Friend', Dashboard Prophet**

**

* * *

**

In the end, they practically had to carry Raphael away from the table.

Thing was, there was no time. Bishop had expected their arrival- not that they didn't know that before making their failed rescue mission. He'd turned the tracking device in Michelangelo's shell cell back on as a deliberate call for attention, one that he knew they couldn't resist following. He'd arranged the gruesome body of their brother to be on display so they'd find it still pinned down to the table, organs removed, limbs sliced into. Vivisected, his body was still plainly recognizable. It was like looking at a photograph that had been ripped to shreds.

It sent a vicious, visceral message that was designed to stun them into being easy prey. Perhaps he'd counted on them being too shaken by their brother's corpse to effectively fight back. Not an unfounded prediction: the three of them had a split-second choice between their grief and their survival. There was no time to scream, or cry, or call for someone already gone. No time to mourn. By the time Raphael saw the body, the guards were already hot on their trail.

Over Raphael's howls of anguish, Leonardo could hear the faint sounds of far-off voices yelling orders. Had to be Bishop's guards, running to the sprung trap. He looked at Donatello, who sat on the ground, hands over his eyes. In his grief, his brother looked trapped, held by invisible chains. In that moment, the thought struck him: they all looked so small. Everything suddenly looked so small, so inconsequential. Ephemeral. Something he couldn't even conceive of being capable of protecting. It terrified him.

"Donny, we have to go." Leonardo didn't quite recognize his voice. Made harsh with pain, it ripped at the words as though the act of speaking was what caused him hurt. He tried not to look at the savaged thing on the table. It wasn't his brother. Couldn't be his brother, especially not now, when he was fleeing, leaving it behind.

Footsteps rang even louder in the halls. Leonardo ran to the door and slammed it shut quickly, wishing he could slam home the heavy locks on it. Not possible now, not since Donatello had carelessly picked apart the mechanisms that kept them together. He settled for dragging a heavy metal cabinet in front of it- a laborious task that took him too long to accomplish alone. His brothers were lost, for the moment.

With the cabinet blocking their entranceway they had time, but not more than a few minutes. Leonardo wished he could weld the door to the frame, sealing the room shut tight against any intruders, anyone who would simply defile the body even more. Wished they had been granted more time than this, more time to shake the misery from his mind, time enough to cope with what was in the room with them. (_my fault, all my fault_, _mikey, i let you go alone_)

He flung the emotion aside in a desperate, violent gesture- as though he was flinging away burning coals in his bare hands. There would be time, later, for the living to mourn the dead, but only if the living could escape.

"Donatello. _Now_." Urgency sharpened his tone, and he reached out a hand and tugged at him, hard. There wasn't time for gentleness, not when they could possibly lose more than just one brother's life tonight.

Donatello slowly reacted to the none-too-gentle tugging, turning towards Leonardo and shaking his head as if disoriented. He looked like he was tearing himself out of his mourning with an effort of will. "Right," he finally said, his voice the barest of whispers. "You're right."

Something slammed into the door on the other side, and both of them sharply jerked around. The metal cabinet had been moved back a few inches, etching deep grooves into the linoleum floor. From behind the door, someone was barking orders: surround the room, ready weapons, secure the area. From the sound of it, he estimated there were roughly twenty of Bishop's people outside the room. They weren't speaking, for the most part, aside from the occasional barked commands from what he assumed were the people in command.

One of the voices rang out clearly enough to be heard. "We've got the creatures trapped." An older female voice, smug assurance so thick in her tone it was almost palpable.

Trapped. Was that what they thought?

Leonardo's lips curled back in revulsion and he gritted his teeth against the sudden, overpowering desire to let go any pretense of control and merely attack them. These humans who had murdered his _brother,_ and now thought to trap them like animals and slaughter them as well. Did they think they'd be easy prey? Did they think they could just drug them, strap them to a table and rip them apart so effortlessly?

Did they think he'd condone it?

"Leo?"

_Did they think he'd let them live?_

"Leo."

His grip tightened on the hilts of his swords, convulsively. For that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill. He wanted their blood so badly he could almost see the thin arc of arterial spray peppering the walls, could almost taste the iron-sharpness in his mouth. Murderers. Let them see how many of Bishop's butchers he could take down before they thought they could murder his family _again_.

"_Leo_."

A familiar voice, cutting through the rage. A brother's voice, reminding him that there was more at stake than just _his _life. With an effort, Leonardo pulled himself from his thoughts, breathing deeply. Concentrate. Find his center. He exhaled, a brief release of pressure.

Donatello watched him with knowing eyes. He'd been holding onto his arm, his fingers squeezing into his skin in a grip tight enough to leave marks. One look at his expression told him that his brother had guessed what was on his mind: his mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes, still tear bright, were narrowed in determination. "Not now," he said quietly.

Guessed his thoughts? From the sound of his voice, Donatello more than shared them. The rage in it turned it jagged, gave it that rough sandpaper edge that spoke of emotion too strong for even his calm nature to conceal. Even so, his brother was practical first and foremost, and their escape trumped vengeance for the moment. Still, he could see how much it was costing him to speak logically at a time like this. Neither of them were looking at the gurney, but its presence weighed on them.

"We'll return. But we can't do this now," Donatello repeated, shakily this time. "We have to get back to Master Splinter." The mention of his name caused his stomach to twist, cold guilt settling in the pit of it. How could he explain this to him? Their father, who was still waiting home for his sons (_all of them_) to return.

Another heavy slam against the door, and the cabinet screeched forward another few inches, this time progressing farther. Another slam had it bolting forward again, enough to allow a human arm through. No one was actually trying to squeeze in the room at the moment, most likely out of the knowledge that if they tried, they'd be killed as they struggled to move through the small space. Still, they were using more force, or had managed to get more people to help. Time was rapidly running out.

"We need an escape route," he said, looking quickly about the room for any other methods to block to the door while they decided how to escape. "Can we make it through the ceiling? You studied the ventilation system, Donny. Is it safe?" It seemed the most likely escape route they had at the moment, with guards swarming the doors to this room. They _might _make it through the door, but not before being shot at by armed and ready guards, and he wasn't willing to take that chance.

Raphael spoke for the first time. "We're not leaving without Mikey." He sounded ragged, like his screaming had torn his voice to shreds. The look in his eyes was one of immovable obstinacy, an expression he was all too familiar with. It didn't bode well for their chances of trying to reason with him, especially not when they were all emotionally compromised.

"Raph…" he said, struggling with his response.

"Fuck that," Raphael spat. So his tone must have given away his intent. "No. No fuckin' way we're leaving without him, Leo. We al-already screwed up enough, we need to take him home. At least that, y'know?" Raphael was pleading, almost. "We can't just leave him here. Not with goddamn Bishop. Who knows what else that sick bastard will do with…we can't just leave him!"

Leonardo swallowed hard, trying to think of what to say. Because Raphael was right: the idea of leaving even his brother's body here alone was a repellent thought, but taking it with them wasn't an option. Hadn't even entered into his thoughts. Logically, the body was simply an extra burden- dead weight. Logically, there wasn't any way for Bishop to make Michelangelo suffer any more. Their brother was beyond pain. But still, the thought of _leaving him behind_.

Behind him, he was aware of Donatello fiddling with something near the door, as the cabinet continued its shuddering progression. "We can't," he said heavily. "We can't, Raph. I'm sorry. It's too much of a risk."

Raphael spun to face him, face contorted in rage. "Mikey's too much of a risk, Donny? It's too much of a fucking risk to bring what's left of him back home? He don't deserve this- lying here in a lab. We should at least-" Raphael's voice broke as he choked on something, either a sob or a scream of rage.

"That isn't Mikey anymore, Raph. That's just a body." Donatello's voice sounded very far away, and when Leonardo turned to look at him, he saw the maintained distance in his eyes. Later, all that bottled emotion would swallow him up, but he was doing a good job at keeping it at bay for now. He was holding something in his hand, carefully, like it was delicate, and as he spoke he edged a bit closer to the gap that was forming where the door was.

"He's beyond pain now, but we're not. We need to get out of here. And you need to back away," he added in the same distant tone.

Leonardo recognized what was in his brother's hand in enough time to throw Raph back, sending both of them falling over an empty examination table as Donatello pressed a button on the grenade in his hand and flung it into the corridor. There was a sound of a scuffle outside the door and voices raised in alarm, and then nothing but the deafening roar as the thing detonated.

The explosion rocked them as Donatello dove past them, falling into the floor and covering his head as debris flew their way. When it was over, he rolled swiftly to his feet, retrieving his bo staff from where it lay next to him.

"That bought us a little time," he said harshly, "But there'll be more of them in minutes. You're right about the ceiling, Leo. It's probably the safest bet out of the room, but I don't think we should use it for long. We get in until we find access to a hallway and try to make it out that way. This isn't a large building and this place is in the woods."

Forest was good. They could melt into the shadows the trees provided without leaving any traces, not even for someone as skilled as Bishop. Forest meant easy cover, easy concealment, and the advantage of natural camouflage as well as their own ability to scale the treetops and move soundlessly through underbrush. Once they made it, no clumsy human soldier could find them.

The problem was making it to that point, since it was very clear that this place had been prepared for their arrival. Probably even had been staged to trap the remaining three of them here. Leonardo fought the rising wave of guilt- his fault for leading them there, his fault for choosing to head into an obvious trap. (_but it had been their brother. none of them would have stayed behind if there had been the slightest chance for mikey's survival_.) If they all died tonight, it would be his fault.

As if on cue, he could hear approaching footsteps once more, these more cautious than the previous group's arrogant tread. He could hear the sound of guns being readied to fire.

Raphael breathed raggedly as he got to his feet. One look at his eyes told Leonardo everything he needed to know about his emotional state - his brother had gone past the point of sanity, either temporarily or for good. He'd reached the point where his rage overwhelmed his reason, a state in which he couldn't be reached by any attempt at rationality. Usually, when he snapped, they either rode the wave or someone snapped him out of it, shocked him out of it with force or enough yelling. No time for that now.

Leonardo tried to grasp his arm as Raphael stood and held his weapons with what was clearly murderous intent. "Raph, don't do this." Too late, he heard there was not enough command in his tone, but he was having a hard enough time keeping his own emotions under check to have an effect on his brother's.

Raphael simply growled, an impatient, lethal sound. His hands clenched his weapons so hard, the bone showed through the skin on his knuckles, and his teeth ground together angrily. He didn't fight Leonardo's order with words, possibly because at that time, there were no words left in him.

Then Bishop's people were swarming in the room, and there was nothing to do but fight.

The first thing Leonardo did was try to lead them out of the room, choosing to shift their fight away from the enclosed space of the lab and into the more open hallway.

The thing was, while Donatello was right about Michelangelo being gone and his body being nothing but a body now, and although it was beyond torn and mutilated, it was still his brother's, and it wouldn't do to have him blown apart by gunfire and energy blasts.

So he nimbly flipped over and above their hands, landing lightly on his feet in the hallway. The hallway, where he was being besieged on both sides. By giving up his position in the room, he knew he was giving up the advantage of being able to take a stand at the doorframe and cut them down as they came closer. It was horrible tactics, but he tried to ignore the strategic failure of his actions in favor of cutting down anyone who came close enough to slice with a sword.

The other problem was keeping track of his brothers. It was difficult enough to divide attention during combat, even more so when combat was like this: fighting at close range the enemies at hand, _while_ dodging shots from enemies who were safely beyond reach of his weapons. Turn and twist all he liked, there was no way he would be able to dodge everything that came his way. Still, they did have one advantage: the enemies were on both sides, which meant they were less likely to open fire on them. It would mean their shots might miss and hit their people on the opposite side.

The turtles had no such issue. They had taken advantage of their enemies' initial hesitation, meeting them with outright aggression and in Raph's case, murderous rage. They killed whoever they came up against without pause, turning immediately to the next enemy as soon as they took out their first.

Leonardo had no idea how much time was spent in that way: dodge a punch, sword thrust through the abdomen, slashed open neck, dodge, spin, severed carotid, kick, shove, kill. Kill. A true fight left no real time for ordered thought: most of it was quick decision making, thinking on his feet, predicting moves seconds ahead and not hours, not even minutes. When he could, he looked for his brothers in the chaos and found that they were still up and moving, both engaged in similar routines.

Raphael fought viciously as a rule, but tonight he was beyond mercy. The few times he managed a glance at him, he was throwing himself after their enemies, killing them quickly and brutally- shoving a sai through someone's throat, snapping a neck. His skin was streaked with bruises and bullet grazes.

For a moment, he allowed himself to think that maybe they could just cut through them, defeating overwhelming numbers with nothing but skill and the strength of their grief. That it was possible, at least, for the three of them to make it out alive, if not untouched.

Then one of them pulled out a weapon that looked nothing like a gun and sent something at Donatello that looked like a net, a fine-woven thing of sparking white energy.

"Donny!" he yelled, shoving his opponent out of the way so he could rush towards his brother, "Watch _out!"_

He cleared the space between them in a matter of split seconds, pushing Donatello away with a hard shove that sent him colliding with Raphael, still thick in his haze of anger. They had enough time to make a sound of protest: Donatello a shocked cry, Raphael an angry snarl, before the net hit him, contracting around him on impact. It made a sound like sizzling, like static electricity amplified, as it made contact with his skin.

The last thing he saw before he went uncomprehending was their faces, contorted in horror. Then pain. Just pain.

* * *

Someone was crying out for him. He could hear their words without understanding the shape of them, could hear the undercurrent of pain in their voice. He could hear their tears.

"Leo."

Familiar voice. One that tugged at him, urgently.

"Leo. _Leo_."

Raphael's voice, weeping. He tried to pull himself out of unconsciousness. It was like trying to lift himself from a pool of thick, sticky tar.

"Don't touch him, Raph." Donatello this time, sounding fatigued and past the point of emotion. There were sounds in the background, mechanical ones, and the scent of the air was metal and ozone and not familiar. Wasn't _home_. Wasn't safe yet. He had to wake up. The voices of his brothers swam, distantly, in and out of coherency.

"…My fault, should have listened. When's he going to open his eyes, Donny? Is he?"

"I can't tell. I haven't found anything that would mean…permanent damage. It might have been concussive; meant to take him out of the fight, but not to kill. They might have wanted," a hard swallow, his brother's throat closing, "Another test subject."

There was a slam, someone's fist hitting metal. Probably Raphael. A stream of tear-choked curses. Definitely Raphael.

His breathing hitched and for the first time, he realized his body was sore, like he'd been training without stop all day, or beaten more severely than he remembered being. Consciousness gathered at the corner of his thoughts, like water flowing into an empty bowl.

Someone's hand curled around his. "I think he's coming to." Yes, that was Donatello.

This time, his eyes opened. His vision swam for a moment, allowing him the blurriest possible view of his surroundings: darkness, tiny lights that probably belonged to nearby machines, the dark, huddled forms of his brothers. The shapes coalesced into Donatello, crouched over him in concern, Raphael sitting nearby with an expression that suggested that he'd thought, more than once in the time he'd been out, that he was going to lose more than one brother tonight.

"We're not safe yet." Leonardo's mouth felt cotton-dry, and he swallowed to rid himself of the feeling. Attempting to sit up brought another wave of pain, a stiff soreness that he took comfort in. Soreness was good. Meant he could still feel his limbs. "We're still in Bishop's facility."

Raphael snorted, but he could sense the relief behind it. "Well, _he_ seems fine now. No asking where in the building we are or nothing." His words were shaky, almost unstable. Leonardo turned to look at him, trying to gauge his stability.

"We're in one of the upper levels," Donatello said, quietly. "We managed to get you into an elevator after you were hit."

"Do they know where we are?"

Seemed likely they did. It wouldn't be overly difficult to track two of them, encumbered with the unconscious body of a third. He was aware of the irony: they'd ended up having to drag a body away after all, it was just his own. That would have made them louder, less stealthy, as they dragged him wherever they'd managed to flee to. And this building was not only fully-staffed, it must have been prepared for the eventuality of their arrival. Bishop had practically opened the door and invited them in. _Someone _must have spotted them, if only on security cameras.

"No one's come for us," Donatello said, into the silence.

Leonardo looked at him, at his frozen expression. "How long have we been here?"

"Better part of ten minutes." More than enough time to track and find them, if their enemies needed to. They might be good at hiding, but in one of Bishop's bases, staying in one location? It would have been nothing to find them, if they'd exerted themselves. They were easy kills, one down and two injured.

Which meant someone hadn't even bothered.

"We should get moving," Raphael said, narrowing his eyes at the two of them.

Neither of them said as much to Raphael, who was still volatile, who was likely to explode again at the next provocation, but they both knew. If they really wanted to, they could crawl out the window and into the open forest surrounding the building and not be shot at. The guards downstairs hadn't even been sent to kill them. They were chasing them out. _Chasing them out,_ like rats or some other vermin. Bishop's message couldn't be clearer: 'you're nothing.' Not even worth murdering.

He swallowed his rage with an effort, clenching his fists tight. The man tore their brother apart and didn't even consider them a threat afterwards, after he'd shoved the body in their faces.

What made the insult even worse was that, at this point, they could do nothing but that, flee to the safety of their home. They couldn't afford dying here today, not until they'd gone back to Splinter. They couldn't all go down here, not when it wasn't even a given that their enemy himself was even in residence. Defeat had never been this bitter.

They were all crouched together as close as possible, he realized. He didn't need to move his hand more than a fraction of an inch to touch either of them. Was that because now more than ever, they were aware of how easily separated they were?

'Leo?" Raphael said, watching him warily. "We need to go."

A beat, as he considered. It wasn't much of a decision to make.

"You're right," was all he said.

Next to him, Donatello shut his eyes, and he laid a hand on his shoulder, trying to give reassurance.

They'd be back.


	9. under suspicion

**Ourobouros Complex**

**By**: Serendipity

**Chapter Eight**: _under suspicion_

_

* * *

_

"_There is no rule more invariable than that we are paid for our suspicions by finding what we suspect."_

- Henry David Thoreau

* * *

The family carried on without any sign of being aware they were under surveillance, which was always a positive as far as those things went.

Meanwhile, they managed to establish from the surveillance that the family routine was fairly boringly average: the kid got home from school, the parents got home from work, they spent time doing homework and watching TV and doing housework, they had dinner, and at some point afterward they went to bed. People were typically all in bed by midnight, which was a decently average hour. Made it easy for them, at least: no need to arrange their break-in around the erratic schedule of an insomniac.

It was easy enough to slip in through the sliding door of their balcony. The family hadn't bothered with a security bar on it, presumably since they lived on one of the higher levels and didn't think a thief would bother with that point of entry, which made Donatello's work easier. They had _good _locks, for an apartment building, but still nothing he couldn't pick with his eyes closed. The two of them tread softly, entering with as much noise as a light breeze, and quietly slid the door shut behind them.

Leonardo looked around, assessing their surroundings. They didn't risk a flashlight right now, when the family hadn't been drugged into deep sleep yet, so despite his excellent night vision, he only got a vague shape of the place: kitchen, living room, an open door leading into what they knew was the computer area, a staircase leading upstairs to the kid's room, and two more rooms on the lower level; the parents' bedroom and a room being used as a combination library and entertainment area.

They'd managed to gather that from Donatello's highly-effective surveillance bugs, using a sort of radiation to see through the walls. Thank god, he thought, for his brother's mad scientist abilities. Maybe they occasionally led to chaos, but they were very helpful on the whole.

He gestured at the parent's bedroom and Donatello gave an imperceptible nod. Better to give them their dose of sedative first. They could deal with accidentally waking the kid if something went wrong with the parents, but accidentally waking the parents in the alternative scenario would allow for two distressed, protective parents, and at least one of them would go for the phone. The kid, judging from his panic reaction in the sewers, would be too startled to react helpfully. Then there was the fact that accidental discovery by the kid was more acceptable than accidental discovery by the parents, who might not be aware of their existence as of yet.

It felt wrong to be sneaking into someone's bedroom, especially since these people seemed to be so very normal. Although, wrong wasn't really the word he wanted. It felt low, it felt sleazy, it felt like he was committing breaking and entry like some common street thug. They walked into the bedroom, silent as specters, carrying Donatello's set-up- canisters of the solution piped through thin plastic tubing, and masks to set over these people's faces while they lay sleeping.

When he pushed open the unlocked door, the bed was in perfect view; queen sized, the sheets rumpled from the tossing and turning of the occupants. Husband and wife were lying there, curled up next to each other in unspoken human intimacy, their body language trusting and relaxed, and it felt wrong to be silently witnessing this. It was a violation of privacy, something that no one was intended to see. It was dehumanizing, what they intended to do.

Leonardo's mouth twisted in self-disgust. When he held out his hand for the first mask, he saw that Donatello's expression nearly matched his own, his eyes averted from the bed. It seemed like his brother shared his moral self-doubts over this particular venture. There wasn't anything honorable in what they were about to do.

It was instinctive to want to get this distasteful thing over with quickly, but he tried to make sure he didn't rush anything. It was important that they stay asleep for this. He held the mask over her face first, watching for any visible changes as the xenon solution took hold. It was difficult to see if she became more relaxed: she'd been in repose, the muscles in her body already relaxed, her posture already limp, but he waited the prescribed amount of time before fastening the mask and continuing on to the husband. He put up a similar lack of struggle; the drug taking effect just as it was meant to. According to his brother's expert calculations, both of them would be in a deep enough slumber that they wouldn't likely wake, even if one of them were to drop a television.

Perfect. They'd successfully drugged sleeping people in their beds. Now, on to the kid. Ugh.

He looked over to where Donatello was adjusting the canisters, making sure they wouldn't accidentally unattach themselves to the masks or tip over, and shared a glance with him over how horribly creepy this made them feel. This was definitely not a situation he intended on finding himself in again, nor a strategy he wanted to repeat. Not unless actual criminals were involved, anyway. A glance over at the sleeping forms in the bed added to the overall sense of self-disgust, and he quickly turned away.

They snuck up the stairs and went through the door of the kid's room, revealing nothing more sinister than a bed, the shadowed shapes of furniture, a messy floor, and the kid himself sprawled under the covers. This whole operation was beginning to feel like an enormous anticlimax along with being morally uncertain.

They went through the same procedure with the boy that they had with his parents: holding the mask over his mouth and nose and letting the gas slowly flow in for the prescribed amount of time it took for the drug to take effect, then attaching the mask to ensure it would continue to do so. Finally, when the whole routine was over, Leonardo flicked the light switch on, making sure to keep a close watch on the kid's face as he did so. His eyelids didn't so much as flicker from the change in light, and Leonardo allowed himself to relax just a tiny bit.

"Alright," he said, in a voice no louder than a whisper, not willing to go much louder than that despite the sedation, "We might as well search this room first."

Donatello surveyed the room in one casual glance and snorted quietly. "Is he fifteen or five?"

He followed his gaze. The room was painted dark blue, with the occasional scattering of silver constellations across the walls, and a border of rocket ships. Presumably, the parents hadn't gotten around to paying for redecorating once the kid had gotten past the age of ten. Along with that charming addition to the décor, there was a desk, a bookshelf, another shelf running along the wall, and a small chest of drawers. The floor was a mess of discarded clothes, books, and various paraphernalia, but the shelves and desk seemed kept in some semblance of order.

All of it screamed 'normal kid's room.' Not helping with his growing sense of stupidity over this mission.

Brushing aside the feeling that he had truly graduated to a new low, he began searching the kid's possessions, while Donatello gravitated towards the computer on the desk to strip it of any information the hard drive carried. That information they'd look over with leisure in the relative safety of their lair.

Leonardo wasn't as thorough as he could have been, searching through the bookshelves and the dresser and under the bed, but everything he saw only helped add to the obvious conclusion that whoever this kid was, his room had nothing abnormal in it. There were some things that might be suspicious, taken into account with the kid's previous pattern of behavior: bits of things clearly collected from the sewers, the bent piece of rebar he found under the bed along with the backpack. Nothing he didn't know already.

If a person's possessions helped to reflect their personality, all he was seeing was an average teenager. He liked the music boys his age would probably enjoy, he had a jumbled collection of books that contained both what he must have read as a younger child (Hardy Boys) to what he was reading now: certain novels that screamed 'assigned school reading', some books on photography, Calvin and Hobbes, and a few self-selected fiction books. Steve, according to the collection of trophies and photographs, enjoyed playing a wide range of sports. The guitar in its case and selection of sheet music on the bookshelf suggested he was musically inclined.

Nothing that particularly pointed to an interest in espionage. And continuing on with the sense of pointless creepiness.

He did discover the kid's name from some of the homework papers lying scattered on the desk. Steve Kalawinsky. He showed the paper to Donatello, who was busy fiddling with something on the computer. Most likely uploading spy software.

"Steve," said Donatello musingly. "Wow. Even his name sounds normal. It speaks of nothing but a lack of imagination. Very suspicious." His tone sounded dry to the point of being acidic. It seemed as though he, too, was suffering the same sense of self consciousness over the possible futility of this mission. Doing any of this at all was grating, doing it for nothing was even worse.

"Almost done there?" he asked, carefully putting the paper back where it belonged. Where it belonged was half-falling off the edge of the desk, but it was important to leave everything where it had been. Yes, he might be being slightly paranoid, but paranoia gave them an edge in survival.

"Just about." The computer began shutting down. "I assume our next stop will be the computer room downstairs? You can look around the place and set up the auditory bugs while I take care of the computers. I doubt you want to fully inspect, say, the kitchen and the bathroom."

The kitchen and the bathroom were, he suspected, full of nothing but kitchen and bathroom supplies. Inspecting them would only add onto the feeling that he was being an idiot. "I think we can leave those with just a brief once-over," he said, dryly. The kitchen itself would have an auditory bug attached to it, as well as the living room, computer room, and the kid's bedroom. Putting bugs in the bathrooms or the parent's bedroom crossed a line into skeeviness they both felt they'd rather not cross. Which was why no cameras were going up in the kid's bedroom, either.

"It'd be easier if he had obnoxious posters and evidence of delinquency all over his room," Donatello muttered. He understood that sentiment. Then it would still be intrusive, but at least they could somewhat self-validate over it.

The kid- Steve, shifted on the bed behind them, making a low sound under his breath. It was the formless shifting of someone in deep sleep, but he checked on him anyway, assessing his breathing patterns and the slackness of his posture.

"Still asleep," he assured Donatello, who was looking over with a tense expression.

Donatello sighed and got up from the seat. "I'm finished anyway," he said. "Come on, let's go search the rest of this evil lair."

* * *

It seemed as though the rest of the evil lair was going to be just as embarrassingly normal as the two bedrooms. The place was decorated in the sparse, modern look: all geometric angles and dark woods and nonrepresentational prints. There was a reed diffuser sitting on the countertop, making the whole place smell of pine needles and cedar, there were a few books lying on the couch and a pile of mail was resting on the counter. Aside from that, the place was fairly free of clutter.

Leonardo placed another one of Donatello's tiny microphones under the dining room table. The thing was self-attaching, clipping itself to the smooth wooden surface automatically, a tiny bit of metal that might be taken for a stray nail or a screw. They'd be activated remotely later.

That was the last of the devices he was supposed to set up. Finally. Hopefully now they could just unhook the gas masks and just go home. Leonardo had a sour taste in his mouth from this night's work, and he hoped something they found on the computers would at least partially justify their actions.

As if on cue. "Found something." Donatello's voice was grim, with a slight undercurrent of triumph. He was sitting at one of the desks in the computer room, his posture casual, his gaze rested on something lying on top the desk itself. The computer was turned off, signifying that he was finished with it. He turned to look at Leonardo as he drew closer, his mouth drawn in a thin line. "Guess who the father works for?"

He followed his brother's gaze to the object on the table: a small plastic card, attached to a lanyard. An ID card. It had a picture of the man sleeping in the room a few feet away, and the too-familiar symbol of the EPF printed in clear colors on the front. Joshua Kalawinsky, Earth Protection Force, in the guise of Homeland Security. One of Bishop's people.

His mouth quirked downwards as he felt the familiar mixture of disgust and hatred that came up whenever he thought of the man. The evidence of further tampering with their lives didn't help any. Leonardo felt the sudden, murderous urge to go to Mr. Kalawinsky's room and run a sword through him while he slept. An apt form of justice dealt out to someone who cut apart helpless bodies in the name of 'science'.

Except killing people in their sleep was no more honorable, and helped no one. Leonardo leashed the rage and turned his attention to the discussion.

"He's using his son as a spy?" He picked up the card and inspected it, although he knew he wouldn't get much information from that.

"Looks like it, doesn't it?" Donatello turned around in the chair. "According to the degrees, he majored in bioengineering and minored in biochemistry. With that sort of background, I can only guess what he's doing with Bishop. I'm sure you can, too. The guesses aren't pleasant."

Grimacing, Leonardo returned the badge to its place on the desk. It was only too obvious what one of Bishop's dissection team members might want with the two remaining turtles, so he didn't bother asking. "You think he knows something about the construction going on underground?"

Donatello shrugged. "Maybe. If they're connected, we might find some information off of what I've managed to get here. We still don't know who's behind that, after all."

He nodded, although his suspicions were starting to lean heavily towards Bishop being behind the sudden retrofitting. "What about the mother?"

"Nothing suspicious on her. Rebecca Kalawinsky, meteorology major. She's published a few articles I'm familiar with, and a couple of books, mainly focused on mesoscale meteorological events." Donatello paused for a moment, possibly keeping himself from going into full-scale science babble mode. "Anyway, she doesn't work for EPF or anything affiliated with Bishop. Which doesn't necessarily mean she's not aware of her husband's work."

"And her son's activities." That was an unnerving thought. Leonardo's lips thinned into a grimace at the possibility.

Intellectually, he knew that parents committed neglect and worse to their children, but it was still unnerving to think of a pair of people who seemed fine with allowing their fifteen year-old, woefully unprepared kid to do what amounted to 'monster hunting' in their minds. That crossed the line of parental neglect and went straight on into endangerment. It suggested that they had gone with the idea that their enemies were as honorable as Bishop must have told them, and wouldn't kill a child.

They weren't wrong, but that they were willing to take the risk at all was repugnant. They weren't the only thing to fear in the sewers, and Steve could have easily died of poisoning, from bad fumes or from falling into sewage. He could have fallen from the slippery ladder rungs and broken his neck, giving him a quick death, or his legs, leaving him to die alone of thirst if no one found him. The idea that any parent was willing to risk that and worse with their child was just…repugnant.

"And that." Donatello considered it, also looking disgusted. "It could be that neither of them know, and Bishop is simply using the kid without his parent's knowledge. Either way, we have enough surveillance going on to find out what's happening, if it happens in the house."

Which meant it was time for them to leave. Anything else they wanted to discuss could be discussed at home.

* * *

Removing the masks was a less touchy procedure, as the drug would still be effective for fifteen minutes after the removal of the gas. They carefully detached the masks, secured the canisters, and stashed them in Donatello's bag. Neither of them could talk much as they did this, not wanting to risk exposure if one of these people was particularly resistant to the drug and woke up before schedule.

Even knowing about the husband's connection to the EPF, this seemed intrusive on a very personal level. He shared a look with Donatello as he slipped the mask off of Mrs. Kalawinsky's face. _Never again._

Still, 'never again' tended to mean 'not unless we absolutely have to and in times where there is no other choice.' Leonardo found himself wishing that reality didn't compromise his ethics as much as it tried to. It would be really nice if they had more enemies that respected a code of honor. Karai had been one of the few. Then again, she wasn't much of an enemy any more.

When they came to remove the mask from the kid's face, he found himself wondering about _his _motivations. It had seemed that he didn't think anyone would be there, since the surprise he showed at their presence was unfeigned, and he had assumed they were human. Did they not bother telling him what it was he was searching for? He could be aware of the situation and assured that it was justified, but that was unlikely. That Steve was that convincing an actor, in the face of utter terror and at this age, was improbable to say the least.

He seemed to have been there willingly, from his initially casual behavior, and he'd certainly broken into April's basement willingly. Had that been at his father's behest as well? Leonardo wished there was a way to properly question these people without them actually being conscious. But then again, that would be crossing yet another moral grey line.

They slipped out of the apartment in silence, leaving no trace they'd been there at all.

* * *

Once they arrived at the Lair, Donatello went straight to his computer with the lifted copies of the family's hard drives, and went to work. Leonardo decided _not_ to hover over his shoulder, and went to go through some basic kata.

Going through the basics allowed him to perform something that didn't require much in the way of thinking; a mindless, calming exercise that still allowed him to have an outlet for his nervous energy. Because, let's admit it, he _was _worried about what possible information Donatello might find, especially if it was connected to recent activities down in the sewer. Whenever Bishop got involved, the results were never good for them. The man (_if you could still call him that) _was ruthless, cunning, and downright unpredictable. Who knew what he was planning this time?

And there was the other consideration. They'd finished with fighting him. At some point, it became too exhausting to try, too dangerous to risk. Any confrontation with him was practically guaranteed to end in their death, making them choose their battles very carefully. At some point, their lives quickly began to take priority over almost everything else. If Bishop was taking steps to finally engage them, moving into their own home to do it, well. They might have to leave home.

He had enough pride that the thought of being forced to flee like frightened mice was galling. Infuriating. Bishop had taken everything from them, and here he was stripping away another piece of their lives. It wasn't surprising, but it did frustrate him.

The hours went by, slowly. Donatello worked tirelessly, stopping only to go to the kitchen and brew some coffee, muttering something under his breath as he did so. Leonardo occupied himself with routine: training, meditation, pause for food, back to running through his exercises. Waiting for the next shoe to drop.

"Found something." Donatello's tone had the vague, slightly distracted quality that meant he was focusing on something else. Leonardo glanced over to see him looking intently at the monitor, the lines of his body outlined in a rim of faint blue illumination. His brother turned slightly to meet his gaze, and Leonardo simply gave him a questioning look.

"A couple of encrypted documents," he continued. "Found them on Mr. Kalawinsky's hard drive. They came with his work email. Presumably he sent them to himself."

"Encrypted, meaning they'll take you a while to be able to read?" Leonardo asked_._

Donatello frowned at the computer screen. "Let's see. Asymmetrical encryption, probably comes with more than the standard 128 bits. Probably. I'll have to try a few algorithms to see if I can- oh, wait." He looked briefly chagrined. "Never mind, I'll have it done in a couple of hours. Forgot that I have his keys."

He allowed that statement to whisk merrily over his head, taking note of how long it would take to extract the information and not focusing too hard on the computer speak. "Fine. How about the other two? Did they have anything of interest on their computers?"

A shrug. "Actually, not at all. Mrs. Kalawinsky has a few folders of family photos, some music, pictures of weather phenomenon, and some interesting articles-in-progress as well as a few other works she's written. Mainly on, as I said, mesoscale meteorological events. As for the kid," he paused, "The kid mostly has everything you'd expect from a kid that age and nothing more. Haven't even found anything in his e-mails aside from messages to his friends about some band. I'm considering that a bust. But he does have a few interesting folders with pictures in them."

Leonardo lifted an eye ridge. "Pictures?"

"Photographs." Donatello turned to another monitor and brought up an image. It wasn't high quality by any means and obviously amateurish, but the place was immediately recognizable to him as the wreckage of their first home. A few pictures of it went up one after the other, before another recognizable picture of a place they had visited often went up. His eyes narrowed as he watched the unsettling slideshow. Whoever the kid was, he'd been able to find a lot more of their areas than he'd expected.

"We don't frequent those areas any more, though." he said, musingly.

"Maybe whoever is sending him doesn't know that." Donatello turned away from the images. "It might be someone in the EPF who's working independently, or it could be Bishop himself. Either way, humans poking around the sewers looking for us doesn't bode well. Humans associated with Bishop? A recipe for disaster."

Not for the last time, Leonardo wished they could manage to kill that bastard. It wasn't enough to be a corrupt, murdering, criminal madman, he had to be skilled and cunning as well. Even if he managed to run a sword through him, he wouldn't trust him to actually be dead until he'd burned the body to cinders and then strewn the cinders with salt. His mouth pulled into a grimace as he ran through the list of possible reasons the EPF and Bishop would have for seeking them out.

"He started out looking at April's place," he said. "We should warn her about possible interference. They're ruthless enough to try and use her as leverage if they're really focused on getting the two of us."

Donatello nodded, his expression both grim and worried. April was skilled enough to evade capture in some circumstances and to defend herself against their lesser enemies, but their old enemy had taken down more skilled opponents with ease. By the look on his brother's face, not a night was going to go by without him feeling concerned for her safety.

Fortunately, to their enemies, April was far too useful as a hostage to kill.

"I hope that what's in that email explains some of this," Leonardo said, solemnly. Otherwise they might have to leave home sooner rather than later. There was no point staying somewhere that was soon to be a hazard.

Donatello looked reflectively at the monitor, his mouth drawn into something that wasn't quite a frown. Yet. "If not, I am still keeping track of his work email," he said. "Hopefully something will turn up."

Hope again. That was not the word to use or rely on, not for either of them. They'd given up depending on hope a long time ago.

* * *

The project was called Search for Life, an expansive subterranean venture that guaranteed immediate results.

Once successfully decrypted, the documents offered a description of what sounded like the new construction project in the sewers. The only problem was the whole thing was coached in the most vague language possible. There were not a lot of specifics, aside from the starting location and project headquarters, now in development, the date of the project launch, and a general description of what these people aimed to do. None of it was reassuring.

"Basically, it looks like they're trying to set up something that will detect all foreign life forms," Donatello said. "Looks like they're trying to pass it off as a sanitation project."

Leonardo snorted. "I'm sure that's what they think it is, too."

"They mention that the technology they're using is fairly new. I might be able to tamper with it."

"Once it makes an appearance, you mean." He didn't like the idea of waiting around for the chance to arrive. It sounded too risky. Once they brought in whatever it was they'd be using to detect them, and presumably other nonhuman life, they might run the risk of being spotted and captured.

"Whatever they're using is likely to only be able to cover a small area at a time. Otherwise they'd be doing this aboveground. We know we're they're starting, and it's not close at all to where we are. I suggest we put some surveillance there as well, then come check it out when they seem to install their tech." Donatello noticed Leonardo's frown and put on his carefully patient look. "We'll do thorough recon beforehand, Leo. Minimal risks. I think it's worth it to see if I can trick their sensors, whatever they are."

Leonardo was sure he did. He also suspected that Donatello had a vested interest in checking out some exciting new machines. He gave him a dubious look.

Donatello returned it with a wide-eyed, earnest one of his own…and the slight traces of a smile in the corners of his mouth.

"If I think we can't accomplish this, we're not going to do it," he warned his brother, who had the look of someone who was assured that he was going to get his way. It was a very depressing expression to see, for it was often true. This did not sway him from attempting to establish some level of control over the situation.

It went precisely as well as he planned. Donatello looked unfazed at his request. "Of course."

"And no experimental tech this time around. I still have headaches from the last time."

"Naturally," his brother said affably. Then he paused, examining his expression, his gaze insightful. Whatever he saw prompted his next statement. "We really don't have to if you'd rather not," Donatello said, carefully.

"I just- don't want to risk running into him again," he said, tiredly. It had been a long, long time since they'd last seen Bishop, but he was perfectly content to spend the rest of his days without laying eyes on the man's face ever again. The truth was that if he wanted, really wanted, to find and kill them, Leonardo wasn't sure how well he could stop him. He didn't want to tempt fate by rushing out to meet the enemy.

Donatello's expression lost the hint of amusement and he looked down at the chipped wood of his desk. "I understand."

But of course he did. Donatello had been there with him every time they'd lost someone. Their life was such that neither of them needed any reminders. He shifted in the chair, suddenly impatient with the heavy decisions in front of them. There were times he got tired of making them. "We'll have time to think about it, anyway," he said. "For now, you're right. Let's keep an eye on the situation."

And hope it didn't escalate to the point where they couldn't escape it.


	10. so we meet again

**Ourobouros Complex**

**By**: Serendipity

**Chapter Nine**: _so we meet again_

_

* * *

_

Selected audio clips from the room of Steven Kalawinsky:

_rustling_

"_Hang on mom, I need to find my camera."_

_muffled "Can't you wait until after we get the groceries taken care of?"_

_yelling "I haven't been able to find it for days, I think it's lost." back to spoken "Man I hope it's not lost, I paid for that thing. Not in my backpack…crap, what if it fell out in the sewer? Did I close it all the way?"_

_muffled "Steven!" _

"_Coming!"_

_

* * *

_

"_I hate geometry. I really do. Someday I'm going to get a calculator that does it all for me. No, I did the homework. No, I don't think you want to use my notes. Are you kidding me? Fine. But they're not going to be that great. You'll fail with them. Did you ask Dan? Or Makiah, she's seriously a genius, ask her. No I don't have her number. Shut up."_

_

* * *

_

_sounds of rustling fabric, quiet humming_

_

* * *

_

"_Are you sure you haven't seen my camera?"_

"_Yes."_

"_I mean, you checked everywhere, right?"_

"_Yes."_

_frustrated sigh_

"_Does this mean you lost it, Steve?"_

"_No! No, it's probably. Somewhere. I don't know where."_

"_Which means it's lost."_

"_A little?"_

"_Steve, that was a birthday present for you-"_

"_I know, I know. I'm looking, I know."_

_

* * *

_

_guitar strings twang, sounding like a tune is being carelessly picked out. finally something is settled on and music plays complete with accompanying singing. _

_

* * *

_

"_And I think we can't practice over here any more because the neighbors are complaining about the noise. I know, doesn't that suck? Seriously. No, I don't think she has a place we can do it at. What about Kevin? He has a garage. Okay, but maybe they can clean it out. Yeah, I guess we could. Ugh. Why can't more people get earplugs? No, I don't know."_

_

* * *

_

"_Crap. Where's my homework?" rustling sounds_

_End clips._

_

* * *

_

This was asinine.

Two weeks of surveillance on the kid and his family had turned up with a sizable chunk of proof that they were, in fact, mind-numbingly normal when at home. The parents took turns cooking, the kid came home and did chores, they talked about school and television and everyday, average topics while they were together. All things considered, it made him feel like a supreme idiot for even wasting the audio bugs on them to begin with.

He sighed and turned away from the computer. "In today's news, the kid is rocking out to loud teenage music in his room. If I had to guess, I'd say he's giving it accompanying hand gestures and dance moves." Donatello turned to Leonardo, who was wearing an expression that conveyed contained frustration. He knew how that felt. "Can we please just cut surveillance on him already? We've been listening in for a while now, and I don't think we'll be getting anything interesting out of this."

Leonardo waved a hand in irritation. "Fine." It wasn't much of a decision, really. Both of them had been coming to the same conclusion over the past couple weeks- whatever guidance the kid was getting that enabled him to find their hide-outs, it wasn't coming from home. Of course, Mr. Kalawinsky was receiving some interesting notices about the sewer project that made their breaking and entering stint not entirely a waste of time.

The messages were still vaguely-worded, or at least worded in a way that would be obvious for someone who actually knew what was happening in the area to decipher, but was difficult for someone without that knowledge to make out. He managed to come to several conclusions in addition to the realization that Bishop's people were behind the sudden renovations.

One, that the project itself was going to be fairly extensive, since the goal was to monitor the majority of NYC's sewer systems. The range on their tech would have to be pretty high, which was worrying. Two, the project was going to be given high priority- with the first stage projected to be completed in a manner of months. Three- that they wouldn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity when these things started monitoring the place, especially if Bishop was setting up subterranean headquarters. It made his head ache. Bad enough to have him at large even still, even worse to have him as a literal neighbor. Was the man not satisfied until he took absolutely everything from them?

One of the cats twined itself affectionately around his ankles in the way it usually did when it decided now was time to be fed. A plaintive meow followed the gesture, and he looked down to an unblinking, imperious feline stare. _Feed me,_ it seemed to demand, _feed me or your peaceful silence is forfeit. _He reached down and stroked its head, absentmindedly. "In a moment, Tesla."

Their cats had been a parting gift from Klunk, who had managed to find herself a tomcat at some point- they figured it was most likely when April had been cat-sitting, as they never let Klunk out of the lair when she was at home. She'd had a small litter of three: one of kittens had been adopted by April's niece, the other two went to them. It had come as somewhat of a shock when it was clear Klunk was pregnant, and the two of them were, at first, unsure about taking on more pets.

Tesla wound plaintively around his ankle again, meowing in a very definite way. From the looks of it, he was a step away from taking an even more active tack and leaping up into his lap. His tail lashed impatiently and he meowed again.

"Looks like you're taking a break," Leonardo said, amused.

Donatello shot him a look, attempting to look irritated. "You could feed him yourself, you know."

His brother just looked vaguely smug in response. "Oh, no," he said, raising his hands in feigned helplessness, "That's your cat. You're in charge of feeding him. When Bushido wants fed, I'll go and feed her and tend to her needs. That's how it goes."

Tesla punctuated that statement with another mournful meow, and Donatello sighed. "Oh, _fine_. You can have food."

The tip of Tesla's tail quivered joyfully and he padded his way to the kitchen, where he would no doubt lie in wait, head tilted imperiously, for his turtle slave to bring him sustenance. Ah, the joys of having cats. They had the entitlement complex of gods and got away with it by being completely adorable. A genius design of nature, that. Donatello followed his cat dutifully and rummaged through the cabinets for the kibble. Once he managed to pull out the Friskies, he turned around to see both cats watching him, because clearly cats could hear kibble a mile away. It was one of their powers.

Leonardo, who had followed him over, knelt down and started stroking Bushido between the ears. The cat purred happily, leaning into his touch. Bushido was probably the most affectionate creature named after a strict and merciless honor code you could possibly find. She put up a front of graceful dignity that quickly crumbled after the first belly rub.

Tesla, on the other hand, was a stoic statue of feline pride. Until tempted with kitty treats.

Come to think of it, both of their cats were pretty badly spoiled.

"I don't want your cat around when I'm feeding my cat. Those are the rules," Donatello quipped, leaning down to pour kibble into the feeding dish. It clattered against the metal bowl and the cats started purring, chowing down before he'd even finished putting food in the dish. That led him to wonder exactly how much time he'd spent sitting in front of the godforsaken computer, sucking his brains out as he listened to the impressively dull life of the average fifteen year-old. A glance at the digital clock on the microwave told him at least two hours. Brilliant.

His brother quirked an eye ridge at him. "Denying her food, Don? That's heartless."

"I'm a megalomaniacal kibble dictator," he replied flatly, putting the Friskies back where they belonged- out of reach of their surprisingly clever cats, "I'm thinking of enforcing a strict starvation regimen as well as deny them their catnip mouse. I'm that diabolical."

Leonardo smiled. "Well, now that you've said that aloud, they're never going to let you get away with it."

"I knew there was a loophole in the brilliant scheme somewhere." Donatello leaned against the kitchen counter, folding his arms and releasing a sigh. "So. Back to square one. That kid may or may not be a spy- his home life points to 'not', the fact that he _has_ a home life points to 'not', and suspicious parents aside, we really don't have anything to go off of to say that he's under any kind of assignment. On the other hand, he seems to stalk the places we frequent or used to frequent as a hobby."

"He could have been sent to shake us up," Leonardo said, frowning - possibly out of frustration for the topic or distaste for the fact they'd been sent on a fool's errand, one they had trouble stomaching to begin with, to spy on this kid. It was an irritating subject for them, especially since all the information they had on Steve seemed to contradict each other. If they had hair, they'd be pulling it out. "Or he could have been sent to distract us from the bigger issue - the construction they're doing."

Donatello rubbed at his forehead. He hated trying to understand Bishop's means and motivations. Most of them made some deranged form of logical sense, if not strictly adhering to any form of morality, but sometimes he was downright inscrutable. However, that suggestion made about as much sense as anything else - what point was there to a spy who only visited the locations Bishop must have known they'd evacuated? Unless he was there to scout out for their new subterranean project.

"It makes sense for him to be a distraction," he conceded. "From what we've seen, he's only been to locations we don't use or Bishop already knows about. Sending him to scout those areas doesn't make sense, considering who sent him, but sending him to make us antsy and confused does. Although, really, he's not much of a distraction, considering the enormous construction project within walking distance of our home. A little hard to miss that one, pesky snooping kid or not." His tone registered some of the irritation he was feeling about this development.

Leonardo frowned. "It's been a while. Maybe his memory of our abilities is a little fuzzy. Or maybe he's underestimating us again. Or he could have been sent to distract us from some other minute detail. It really doesn't matter. From what we heard from the auditory bug in his room, he doesn't seem like he's going to come trekking back." Not that either of them expected anyone to plot out loud to themselves. People weren't nearly that thoughtful.

Donatello heaved a sigh. "You know, it used to be that people steered clear of the sewers. We'd get drainers sometimes, we'd get people doing maintenance or minor construction, we'd even get the occasional homeless people. But now we're getting a whole underground government facility, I tell you, this place is getting far too crowded."

A slight smile tugged at Leonardo's mouth. "In other words, 'you darn kids keep off my lawn?'"

"I worked hard on that lawn," Donatello said, folding his arms in a show of annoyance. "I mowed that lawn every day. I gave it fertilizer and attention. Soon, there will be government officials crowding that space with their cheap plastic flamingos and tacky garden gnomes. Soon, we will have the men in black running through our sprinklers with reckless abandon. If it was at all possible, I would call the homeowner's association on them."

"Yes, that would show them. A few strict notes and a stiff fine will have them running in fear."

Ha ha ha. Oh, what fun they had when a hostile, murdering madman came to invade their home and possibly finish the job he'd started. It was either tell jokes or spend most of their time in a state of terror, and jokes ended up being a lot more comfortable. Who would have thought it. Although, their brand of morbid humor did have the added bonus of making their still somewhat-normal friends give them a funny look whenever it slipped into their admittedly somewhat-normal conversations. April had just learned to take it in stride, and Casey had…adapted to it with unsurprising ease. Everyone else had mixed results.

"You've been keeping an eye on the area, right?" he asked Leonardo. No need to specify what 'the area' was, not with the two of them gun shy on any sudden movements being made in the vicinity. He'd stick up more surveillance if he didn't think the cameras had a possibility of being found. As it was, what they'd been seeing was nothing too interesting. "Has anything happened recently?"

"I've been watching it," Leonardo said, using his patient older brother voice. "Strangely, very little has changed. It's almost as though construction takes a long time to complete, especially construction related to government projects."

He pulled a face at him. Everyone had to be a comedian. Even the turtle with a partially-functioning sense of humor. "It doesn't hurt to check."

"If there are any sudden explosions, we will be the first to know," Leonardo said in tones of grave amusement. He then gave him a sympathetic look. "Meanwhile, we should make sure everything important is ready in case we do need to leave quickly. That should give you something to expend your restless energy on. I'm getting tired of all this waiting too, but-"

"I know," Donatello cut in. "It's just irritating." Which was a mild way to put the mixture of edginess and stir-crazy boredom he was feeling right now. Having the most evil man in the city decide to set up shop within walking distance of your cleverly-disguised home was horribly nerve-wracking, and waiting through the initial set-up to see what they had to look forward to was maddening. Part of him wanted to just move now and save themselves the hassle later, home sweet home or no.

Tesla curled around his foot and demanded to be petted. Spoiled rotten cat. He bent down and picked him up, stroking the soft fur on his head, and he settled into his arms and purred. Donatello looked at his thoughtfully. "What do you think about me making an automatic cat feeder?"

"I think it will take away the sense of purpose we get in the approximately three minutes it takes to feed the cats," Leonardo said dryly. "Try another boredom project, please."

* * *

Another boredom project turned out to be sorting through a pile of scrap metal he'd scavenged out of the dump, picking through various bits of scrap and sorting them into piles based on metal type. Mostly this stuff was various kinds of steel, metal they used to make weapons or tools with. Meanwhile, Leonardo had selected a nice car spring to use for some new throwing knives and was going through the process of heating up the forge to begin the process of knife-creation.

Since they didn't get into as many battles as they used to, they went through fewer weapons, especially since they didn't use shuriken or knives all that often in a fight, anyway. Their main use was distraction or scare tactics, unless they really felt like attempting to kill someone a few yards away in total darkness with a thrown weapon.

They were quite good at aiming at long-range, Leonardo especially, but that strategy was high-risk. It was also especially irritating because throwing any weapon almost guaranteed losing it, unless you were prepared to spend a lot of time pawing around in the dark. And throwing knives themselves were little good in a close fight, their handles not meant to be clenched tightly and gripped while slashing or stabbing.

As it was, they went through about ten to fifteen knives on a really busy month and five to six on a not-so-busy month. Fortunately, they were cheap if time-consuming to make, and car springs or truck springs from the dump kept them in a good supply of 5160 steel- the low end of high carbon with some chromium mixed in for hardness. It held an edge very well and still remained light enough to be thrown with a good amount of speed. Some kinds of steel made a far too bulky knife for this to work, and they tended to use that for hunting or skinning knives, for when they went on a car trip to the woods to improve their food supply.

Leonardo had some workable steel out already, ready to be forged into a nice, bladelike shape. His knives were usually very simple, but ridiculously efficient- thin and just the right shape to be truly deadly. They learned a while ago that kunai, while not horrible weapons, were not the best _thrown_ ones. He'd looked up a variety of knife shapes for them to try out before they settled on their preferred ones- not that it particularly mattered in the case of desperation, they could throw pretty much anything. Although Donatello despaired of handle-heavy throwing knives, you had to grip them from the blade and they didn't turn out as accurate as blade-heavy or center-balanced.

Really, the whole thrown weapon thing wasn't his forte, anyway. He preferred something that could stay in his hands.

He watched as his brother started shaping the blade, hammering the steel in careful, measured motions. "So," he said, when there was a break from the noise, "Any word from the Foot?" Donatello distinctly used the name of the clan rather than the name of the person who they typically contacted for information, since his brother's working relationship with her could often get complicated. He wasn't looking to make it _that _kind of conversation.

Leonardo still gave him a dubious look, as if waiting for the question to go any further. Donatello merely raised his eye ridges at him and waited for a response, so he sighed and answered. "Not this week, no. Is there any reason why you're asking?"

"I'm perpetually curious," he said dryly. "You can't think of one?"

Another flat look. "I can think of a few."

Donatello nobly refrained from rolling his eyes. "Well, my reason _today _is that it looks like there's a possible suspicious element wandering around our places, poking his nose in our business and suspiciously intruding in our friend's store. I just thought that since we seem to have an entire network of ninjas who could be either behind it and in league with Bishop, which I really doubt, or could be aware of something, which is entirely possible, it would be a good idea to go ask if they have any idea what's going on."

And it had absolutely nothing to do with Leonardo and the Foot's leader making eyes at each other, so he could just stop giving him the 'waiting for the punch line' look now, thanks.

Leonardo's expression shifted from wary anticipation, to realization, to mild embarrassment. "Oh. Right."

"And if they don't know," he continued in a very reasonable tone, "We could even ask for a favor and have them check it out, with them being professional ninjas and all." The sarcasm slipped in near the end, and he didn't bother to hide it. No point, really.

There was a distinct lack of a response to that as Leonardo struggled with trying to say something that wouldn't make him look like too much of an idiot.

Donatello unsuccessfully tried to hide his amusement._ Jumped the gun a little, didn't you? _He couldn't hold back a quick jab, since his brother had practically held open the door for him to do so. "Don't worry about it, Leo," he said reassuringly, "We all have stupid moments. Yours just happen to be any time Karai is mentioned." It wasn't a very kind remark to make, but he figured Leonardo would get over it soon enough.

Just as he'd expected, Leonardo's eyes narrowed in irritation, his shoulders tightening at the remark. "Speaking of stupid moments, do you really want to be making comments like that when I have a hammer in my hand and am in throwing distance?"

He smirked. "Are you saying I'm allowed to if I'm far enough away for it to be considered tactically sound?"

Leonardo crossed his arms. "Fine," he said in a deceptively patient tone. "Can you think of any place in this lair that would count as a tactically sound area?" and with that description, he obviously meant: 'any place in which you could hide that I couldn't find you out and eventually make you pay.'

Since there really wasn't a place in their home or really anywhere in earshot of his brother that wouldn't make it possible for Leonardo to exact payback, the answer was quite clearly a no. "Probably not," he conceded. "So if I'm going to do it, I might as well make it worth it."

An annoyed sigh followed by the loud, repetitive hammering of metal against metal was his only response to that, as Leonardo used the old option of: 'ignore this shit until the annoying younger brother goes away.' That wasn't going to work this time, not that it really did, usually. Still, Donatello waited until he'd finished pounding the steel into shape to continue the conversation, changing topics smoothly.

"Also, I need to go back to the old Illyntian lair to retrieve some of the crystals," he said. "I was going to run some experiments on using them as an energy source, but the samples I took last time have already been depleted."

Frowning, Leonardo looked at him. "That place isn't anywhere near stable. The tech Karai left there is out of service by now, but the place may very well cave in at any second. I don't like the idea of you hanging off the ceiling, trying to pry those things out."

The objection was entirely expected. He'd thought about the sorry state of that particular old home, too, but decided that the risk was worth it. "There's nowhere else I can easily obtain them," he explained. Sure, they could _try_ to go check out the lava-buried wreckage of the Illyntian city, but that would take ages and a lot of effort that he wasn't willing to expend. "Besides," he added, "I'm sure we can handle one little cave in. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Aside from being crushed to death by falling rubble?" Leonardo asked, in the sarcastic-yet-indulgent tone that told him he might as well have agreed to go already. "Fine," he added, confirming it. "Just don't take too long digging them out of there. That won't disturb the ceiling enough to cave it in, will it?"

Donatello shrugged. "We'll find out." He smiled at his brother's expression of half-feigned dismay. "Joking. It shouldn't. Probably."

"Probably." Leonardo sighed. "One of these days you're going to off yourself in a spectacular explosion of karma, and it's a sad, sad thing that I won't be able to enter you for the Darwin awards."

"Hey!" he pointed a screwdriver at him, "You benefit from all of this. You get nice security, working electrical circuits, surveillance cameras, and you can watch your soaps whenever you want."

"Yes, Don," Leonardo said, in a solemn, dry tone, "The only price I pay for all of this is my sanity."

Grinning, Donatello executed another careless shrug. He knew Leonardo was probably dying for the opportunity to do something aside from make weapons they may or may not be throwing at people, and aside from picking fights in alleyways, checking up on really slow construction work, and listen to a teenager sing along to some music they didn't recognize or care about, there hadn't been much to do around the place lately. That was, on one hand, good. It gave them time to plan and strategize and possibly pack for when they might have to leave. On the other hand, well…he was running out of boredom projects to work on, and he doubted his brother had any at all.

"Dare I ask what the energy crystals are supposed to be powering?" Leonardo asked, pulling off the thick gloves he'd been wearing to protect his fingers from burns. They all had some scars on their hands from when they first started learning how to forge weapons and hadn't yet absorbed the importance of safety equipment. Sometimes he wondered if he could remember a time before scars.

"At this point?" Donatello said, "Probably the toaster. Stupid thing's been on the fritz all week."

* * *

There was always something horribly painful about seeing their old childhood homes in their various states of ruin, but this one wasn't nearly as bad as the others. Their first home had been theirs for fifteen years, all of their younger childhood and formative years spent making memories that were ripped apart by Stockman's machines. Their last home together as a family- well, that was obvious enough, and the less thought of that place, the better. But this had only been their home briefly, not long enough to make a lasting impression in his mind. There were, of course, fond memories and painful ones for this place- the wreckage and remnants of Foot tech were testament enough to that, but coming here didn't elicit the same nostalgic ache.

At the moment, he was dangling from the ceiling in a harness, prying around the edges of one of the crystal formations and trying not to damage the thing. There were some truly huge chunks of crystal in this, but he was going for some of the smaller ones: easier to remove, easier to transport, easier to work with. Although the larger ones presented some interesting opportunities, which he planned on experimenting with when he managed to put something together to allow him to safely get the crystals from ceiling to floor without shattering anything.

"Almost done up there?" Leonardo asked, leaning against one of the pillars with his arms folded and watching him. As if he didn't know that this was going to take forever and a day.

Donatello considered throwing down one of the pieces of rock he'd chipped away from the base of the crystal, then decided it wasn't worth it. He wasn't at a good angle to throw it, Leonardo wasn't in a good location for the throw to even hit, and even if he was, his brother would easily catch or dodge it anyway. He settled for muttering something uncomplimentary under his breath.

The smile on Leonardo's face told him he'd heard that. Oh well. "If you're getting impatient, you _could _help," he reminded him. He'd extracted two crystals so far, while Leonardo had spent most of the time standing nearby and being a statue. Probably reaching a semi-meditative, but still conscious state. Sometimes he felt as though Leonardo missed his calling as a high holy monk- which was a shame, with their violent lifestyle. Then again, his calm, controlled brother hid a murderous streak of his own under all the tightly-leashed self-discipline.

"I'd help you, but someone has to stand guard," said Leonardo, still smirking.

Donatello snorted. "The only things likely to attack us here are sewer rats." This was far off from the construction site _and _had the added benefit of being a crumbling mess to ward off potential enemies. He slipped slightly with the chisel and cursed under his breath.

Something crunched under his brother's foot as he took a step closer. "Don't fall." The admonition was more amused than concerned, but he could hear the undertone there all the same. Not that Leonardo really expected him to take a dive, but he was sure his brother's worrywart nature was getting the better of him.

"Hardly," Donatello said, dryly. "If anything, you'll have to worry about one of these falling down and causing a cave-in."

"Thanks, Don," Leonardo grimaced, "That possibility fills me with nothing but relief." The way he shifted and glanced towards the available entrance told him that he was thinking of that very real prospect, no matter how jokingly Donatello had put it. It was always a pain in the neck to get stuck in a cave-in while a ridiculous distance underground, especially if they got separated, and even more so if they were killed in the ensuing avalanche of wreckage.

Although, when he thought about it, that event would be horrible for the short time it took for them to be crushed to death, and after that would be fine. (Or an unknown quantity, since what happened after death was anyone's guess.)

Meanwhile, his thoughts were definitely on a dark turn. Now was the time to attempt to think happier thoughts. "So, you got a call from April today," he said, conversationally, as the crystal finally started to come loose. "What did she have to say?"

The moment of hesitation that followed that question wasn't very long, but it was long enough to be noticeable and definitely long enough for Donatello to get the funny feeling in his stomach that meant he was going to be sorry for asking. Leonardo flicked his eyes away before responding: "She got a message from Raph."

So much for lightening his mood. Donatello felt the familiar bitterness clog his throat, settle in his stomach like a lead weight. "Really?" he said, trying to sound apathetic. "Then I guess he's still alive. Good to know."

He didn't have to look at Leonardo's face, he could _hear _the wince in his voice. "Don…"

"It's fine." His mouth tightened- with the anger or the pain or both, he couldn't tell. "Maybe we should just send our missives to April to give to Raph, since she's more likely than either of us to get any signs of life out of him." He was gripping the chisel far too hard, and any excessive force would damage the crystal he was working on. Donatello inhaled slowly, carefully adjusting his grip. There really was no good cause for him to be this upset, he reasoned. Raphael's downright- thoughtless behavior had been an ongoing issue, and probably would continue to be one until the end of time. No reason for him to feel this betrayed any time April got the messages and not them.

"How's he doing?" he asked finally, not looking at his brother's face as he did so. He couldn't handle whatever emotion he saw there.

Another hesitation, probably Leonardo gauging what he was feeling at the moment. "You know Raph. I think if he was bleeding to death and sick with malaria he'd write that he was fine. He didn't mention how he was, but he seems to be doing well enough. Says he's traveling."

"He's _always_ traveling," Donatello muttered. Still, if Raphael was on the road, it meant he wasn't badly injured or badly ill. Then again, 'traveling' could mean he was on the run from whoever he had managed to piss off or make an enemy of, and Raphael was really spectacular at making enemies. If that particular brother got within arm's reach of him, he would gladly and cheerfully strangle him, both for his neglect to contact them and also for being so completely useless when he _did._

"Not always. I'm sure he rests occasionally in a nice swamp."

"Oh, right. How could I forget. And then there are those times when he stays still long enough to put a basic field dressing on before charging back into a horrible situation." The few times Raphael had come back to visit, he'd regaled them with stories that made both of them want to either have a heart attack and die on the spot or have a tremendously long lecture on the importance of tactics. Apparently those weren't on a high scale of importance to Raphael, who tended to fly headfirst into conflict and to hell with all that consequence nonsense. None of this made not hearing from him any more fun.

"What was it last time? Something about an underground drug ring and some smuggled advanced technology," Leonardo said, clearly trying to turn the conversation towards some kind of positive nostalgia. Since the nostalgia was about his brother's near-death experiences, it wasn't really working.

"Something like that, yes," he said noncommittally, finally managing to dislodge the crystal.

"And then-" Leonardo didn't finish what else Raphael did the last time he was traveling because at that moment there was a faint sound of something scraping against stone. His eyes narrowed and his expression made the quick change from placating to deadly serious.

The flutter of movement on the edge of the doorframe told him they'd been being watched by someone- or something, and he abandoned crystal-gathering right away, un-strapping himself from his harness and dropping to the ground as Leonardo drew his swords and rushed out after the possible intruder.

All of this took no more than a few seconds- with him taking considerably longer than his brother due to being strapped in a safety harness, but he'd designed the thing so he could release himself quickly in the case of an attack. Still, by the time he sprinted out to join his brother, bo staff in hand, Leonardo had already cornered the culprit, who he'd evidently knocked to the ground to keep from escaping. Sprawled on the floor, looking terrified and pale, was the kid. Steve Kalawinsky.

"What do you know. It's you," Donatello said in a mock-casual tone, putting his bo staff back. There wasn't any need for it with this kid, especially not with Leonardo still with his weapons out. "We just keep running into each other, don't we?"

"I'm curious to know why that is." Leonardo looked grim, one sword pointed at the cowering boy on the ground, the other lowered only slightly. The menace in his tone was unmistakable.

The kid had his eyes fixed on the weapon like he thought if he looked away, the sword would impale him. (_Which, if he'd been an older enemy, wouldn't be far from the truth. They'd had many other spies, and most of them had died. _) The boy was pressing himself against the floor in a desperate attempt to get away from the weapon, and didn't look like he was in any state of mind to answer any questions. His mouth opened as though he was trying to say something, but nothing came out but unintelligible stuttering.

All of that- fear, terror, panic, was expected. What was really damning was the recognition Donatello saw in Steve's eyes. There was no reason for it to be there, no reason for any normal human child to recognize them when he saw them…unless the child in question had been shown pictures of them. Unless the child in question was working for someone who knew them. That, more than anything else, cemented their suspicion that this boy was a spy, or at least, someone that was sent to cause them harm. His continued presence in the sewers even after they'd threatened him meant that he might continue to come- unless they made this confrontation suitably intimidating.

And more frightening than the last time would have to get physically painful. On some level, he felt sorry for the kid. He was, in the end, just a teenager. Maybe he was even being pressured into this. Still, their survival came first and foremost. That didn't make it much easier to threaten a kid with weapons like this.

"Well?" Leonardo demanded. The added harshness in his voice made it clear that he'd seen it, too, and wasn't going to show any mercy. Steve's mouth worked frantically in response to the order, still stumbling through words he was too terrified to form, and he raised his arms up protectively in front of his face as if to ward off any attacks.

Unfortunately, Leonardo didn't have the patience to deal with the kid's terror, and he moved the sword an inch or two closer to the boy's face in a blatant threat. "Answer me," he snarled. Donatello suppressed a wince as the sharp edge drew close enough to cut if the kid moved even a few inches. God forbid he make any sudden movements.

"I don't-" Steve spluttered, trying to scoot backwards from the blade, "I didn't-"

"Didn't what?" Donatello interrupted, "Didn't know we would be working here? I find that very difficult to believe. We heard your innocent bystander routine, so try another story."

Steve fixed his gaze on first Leonardo's face, then Donatello's, seeking out their eyes. He shook his head, confusion blending in with terror. "Y-you're not supposed to- be here."

"I could say the same thing about you," Leonardo said coldly. "And yet, here we are. Who told you about us? Who said that we wouldn't be here?"

"Nobody, I just…I…" Steve started stammering again.

The kid was breathing oddly, like he was on the edge of hyperventilation. In response to Donatello's statement, he just squeezed his eyes shut and brought his hands closer to his face, which made it easier for him to notice that they were shaking. The light wasn't too good, but he'd place a bet that he was breaking into a sweat. A glance at Leonardo told him that his brother had noticed the same thing. _Could be the sword that's frightening him so much,_ he thought, flicking a glance at the weapon. He hadn't been nearly _this_ bad when being cornered and threatened by shadowed madmen in the sewers.

Then again, they hadn't been visible at that point, and he could just be scared witless by stories of what they'd do to him if they caught him.

Leonardo pulled the sword back and sheathed it, keeping the other at his side as he pulled the boy up by his shirt with one hand. Steve flailed out at first, trying to fight it, but stopped when Leonardo gave him a hard shake. "Listen to me very carefully," he said with slow deliberation, "Because I won't be repeating myself."

He shoved Steve up against the wall, hard. Hard enough to send his head smacking backwards into it with a loud smacking sound and a jolt that chattered his teeth and made Donatello wince yet again. "It doesn't matter who sent you. If they send you again, they will not be getting you back. I don't want to see you down here again. That means _anywhere _in the sewers."

Another hard shake, shoving him against hard brick and concrete again. He'd undoubtedly have more bruises the next morning, and possibly a lump on the back of his head. Leonardo tightened his grip. "Have I made myself clear?"

Steve's fingers were clutching tightly at Leonardo's arms. Not trying to free himself, but trying to regain a sense of stability for the next shake he was clearly trying to prepare for. He stuttered his way through a 'yes' before Leonardo dropped him, sending him sprawling hard back on the floor. Steve landed on his hip and upper thigh this time, not his ankle, although the landing looked painful enough. He backed up a pace, indecisively, unsure if they would attack him again if he ran.

"Get out," Leonardo ordered in a low, dark tone that demanded obedience.

Steve backed up a few more blind paces, fumbling behind him for something- ah, his backpack, then when his fingers closed around one of the straps, he got to his feet. Lurched to them, rather, then took a few quick, stumbling steps before breaking into a dead run, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the quiet of the sewers. They waited until he was long gone before turning back to each other.

Leonardo's expression was grim, but he could sense the concern behind it. This was the third time they'd sent the kid packing, and they couldn't afford to make idle threats. They'd have to decide what to do with the kid if they found him again- and their life being what it was, they just might. Which meant a hard decision would have to be made soon, and neither of them truly wanted to harm the boy- especially not permanently.

Donatello let out a sigh. "I think I have enough crystals now," he said. Not entirely true, but he could always come back later. A glance at Leonardo told him he was still looking solemn, though this time he was rubbing at the place where Steve had dug his fingers into the skin of his arm. "Look at it this way," he said consolingly, "You didn't break his ankle this time."

His brother's eyes flashed with anger. "I really hate Bishop," he said through gritted teeth.

Right. Using a kid against them so their only choices were to hurt the kid or relinquish information to be used against them was low, but not the lowest their enemy had stooped. Not even close.

"I know," he said curtly, not willing to think about him. "Let's go home."


	11. leave all your love and your longing

**Ourobouros Complex**

**By**: Serendipity

**Chapter Ten**_: leave all your love and your longing behind_

* * *

_Tomorrow is gonna make you cry_

_It's gonna to make you kneel_

_Before it breaks you from inside_

**'Beautiful Side of Somewhere', The Wallflowers**

_Trying to remember you_

_is like carrying water_

_in my hands a long distance_

_across sand. Somewhere people are waiting._

_They have drunk nothing for days._

**'Grief', Stephen Dobyns**

* * *

None of them thought that Splinter would take his son's death easily, but the extent of his sorrow was a shock to see.

He didn't know why, when their own grief was so immense. Maybe because Splinter was their father, their teacher, their rock, and seeing him crumble was as frightening as it was painful. It meant that there was nothing left to soften the blow of their brother's murder.

Leonardo knelt on the floor in front of his father and wished they had something of Michelangelo's to return to him. Bishop's scientists had stripped their brother of the few possessions he had on his body before they began their dissection, and none of them would do anything so grisly as to bring back a piece of the body itself.

The news hit Splinter hard: a few simple words and his entire posture had changed from expectant tension to complete defeat. That was the only way he could put it when he'd seen his usually-poised father sink in on himself, as if someone had cut his strings all at once. He'd shut his eyes, as if the words were visual and closing his eyes could keep him from taking in their ruthlessness. "What happened?" he asked, his knuckles tightening hard around his walking stick, so hard they shook with the tension.

Speaking was suddenly made a difficult action. His throat was shut tight against words, raw with an ache that made his eyes burn. "We," he started carefully, and hesitated, "When we- arrived…"

Behind him, Raphael made a harsh, choked sound, and Donatello hunched even tighter into himself, staring at the floor.

"When we arrived, he was already- it was too late to do anything for him," he finished, unwilling to describe the gruesome scene that had been awaiting them there. Not with Splinter looking so broken already at the finality of those words.

"Could you not have retrieved his body?" Splinter asked, head bowed. He looked old. For the first time, he looked _old_. "Was there no way?"

There was neither reproach nor accusation in his father's voice, but Leonardo felt the sting of guilt anyway. "No," he reported dutifully, clinging to his own self control as desperately as he could, "They knew where we were. When we made it to- to the room, they were already following us. We couldn't carry him out and make a successful retreat."

Or so they'd thought. That was before they realized that they hadn't been being hunted, they'd been being shooed out. The thought that they might have had a chance of retrieving at least that little of Michelangelo weighed down on him in a sudden rush, like fingers tightening around his throat. He forced himself to breathe evenly, keeping track of each exhale. This was a task, he had to complete it before he could allow himself to let go and mourn. This was duty. He had to remain, if not in control, at least composed enough to answer his father's questions. Still, he couldn't hold his father's gaze any more without wavering, his eyes were firmly fixed on the floor. Tears blurred his vision and he blinked, swallowing convulsively.

Splinter took a shaky breath and set his shoulders like he was preparing himself for a blow. "That- creature stole my son for a reason, and from my knowledge of his motivations, it was not a pleasant one. Am I to understand that," here his father looked away, another physical flinch from an emotional wound, "Am I correct in assuming that he wanted him, he wanted his body, to…study?"

He couldn't tell how his brothers were reacting to this line of questioning. He couldn't hear much of them but their breathing, unsteady and tear-choked as he was sure his was. To him, though, it felt like the room had frozen, time slowed to the point where he could feel his muscles tighten individually. The pit of his stomach wrenched in warning. "Yes," he managed, his voice tight, his eyes still watching the swept cement of the floor.

The next question took longer. Splinter seemed to be trying to phrase it in a way that would minimize the pain he was sure it would cause him to ask. He drew another weary, long breath, gripped his cane hard enough that Leonardo was sure they'd begin to see bones protruding through the skin of his knuckles.

"Did he?" his father finally asked. His eyes were open now, watching him, laying him bare with the question.

Now Leonardo's own hands were clenching, tightening into fists. "Yes," he said stiffly.

"I see." There was rage under the grief in Splinter's eyes. "What did he do to him?"

Leonardo wasn't expecting such a direct question, not about that. The answer caught in his throat, held tight by a sudden onslaught of memories: Michelangelo's skin, flayed from muscle, the grim white of his teeth, the protruding bones, his shell carved to pieces. His stomach turned and he swallowed bile, bitter and acid. "I-" he said, haltingly, his control shaken by the flashback. "I don't think-" he said, and didn't know who he was trying to spare: his father the pain of hearing it, or himself the pain of retelling, re-experiencing it.

Splinter bowed his head, closed his eyes. "I know this will be a hard question for you to answer, my son. You have seen horrors no brother should have to lay eyes on, and you have not yet had time to heal. You may not. But I need you to be strong and tell me this. I must know what happened to my son. As a _father_, I must ask this of you." Not as his sensei or his master, but as his father- and as Michelangelo's. That he made the distinction at all showed how deeply important this was.

He took a breath to try and settle himself, but it wasn't much help. "When we found him, he was already…" he trailed off, trying to find words that wouldn't hurt so much, "He was already gone." Dead. Had been dead for a while, but not long enough for the flesh to rot. More words he couldn't bring himself to say.

Another breath. "I don't know how he- how he killed him. He was-" (_in pieces. cut apart. butchered._) No. He settled for an attempt at description without emotion attached, ruthlessly suppressing his rage and sorrow. "When we found him…his body, it was lying on a gurney. Bishop had worked on him- dissected him. There wasn't any way to tell where the wounds were, or what happened, or when he died."

They hadn't even seen him go down, he noted in some numb place on the corner of consciousness. Even with the scene of the lab still etched into their minds, it was still unreal. They were missing all the details, all the context to the murder. He couldn't imagine how it was for Master Splinter, who had seen Michelangelo healthy and laughing only two weeks ago, see him walk out the door smiling and whole, and then only a brief time later learn of his death.

"Could you have brought him back home?" Splinter asked, a weary question that held no censure. He wasn't reprimanding him for not returning with his brother's body. In fact, it seemed like he expected the answer already. It was simply a plea, a father's wistful wish, no matter how much he must have known that they never would have left any piece of their brother there if they had any choice in the matter.

"No," he said simply. "They knew we were coming. They'd sent guards after us, too many of them for us to fight while- while carrying something." He felt a sob rush up his throat, try to force its way past his teeth, and clenched his jaw firmly. For a moment, his teeth ground together and he couldn't help but remember his brother's face without its skin. The horror crept like ants beneath his skin, making his hands tremble.

Splinter sighed deeply, the sort that was meant to be cleansing. It just sounded like a forced release of pressure, necessary and unsatisfying. The set of his shoulders remained slumped, defeated, but there was a subtle kind of steel in his eyes and the set of his mouth. "Very well." Another sigh, this one longer. "Our loss on this night is a great one. It is…too severe to be measured in words."

At that, he lowered his gaze again, and for the first time in their lives, they saw their father weep. It wasn't anything spectacular. He didn't cry with loudly, with wracking sobs, or collapse with grief, and his pain wouldn't have been obvious to anyone else but family. The tears he shed made a thin trail in his fur, his breath became slightly hitched and uneven- something he must have worked with great pains to control. Leonardo wasn't doing a very good job at controlling his own breathing anymore: it came out in half-choked down sobs, in small gasps, in small, fractured sounds.

"We will grieve together," Splinter said, his voice solemn and barely steady, "Afterwards, we will take care of what is to be done, but for now, we must allow ourselves time to get past the worst of the pain."

He stretched out his hands, and it didn't escape Leonardo's notice that they trembled. "Come here, my sons." Their father spoke softly, wearily, breaking at the end as if the word 'sons' reminded him that now he had one less of them.

Raphael was the first to come over: he half-stumbled, half-crawled towards their father, desperate for some level of comfort. Donatello was on his heels, more quiet and less fumbling, but clear in his sorrow nonetheless. Leonardo waited for them before seeking his father's comfort himself, before allowing himself to fully crumble into misery.

And they _were_ miserable. They clung together, seeking reassurance in the physical closeness of their family that remained. They were a huddled mass of tears that their enemy no doubt would find pathetic. For that moment, with no one there but each other and their father, they became children once again- crying over a nightmare. Terror in the dark.

* * *

It was their idea of bedtime, but he couldn't sleep. None of them were training, really. Oh, Raphael positioned himself in front of the punching bag and hit it until his knuckles bruised and swelled up, and Leonardo had made a passing attempt at meditation, but none of them ran through katas or sparred in the dojo. Not now, when going through anything so commonplace and routine would drive it in that they were _missing,_ that they were _not whole. _And their father had already cloistered himself in his room to finally mourn alone, so there didn't seem to be much of a point, anyway.

Now it was time to wait. Now was the time to try and chase away the images that lingered around the corners of their consciousness, that intruded on every waking thought. Now was the time to allow themselves to sort through every layer of the jumbled, disorganized mass of feeling they had.

He didn't know what to do right now, when everyone was cried-out and empty and waiting, too, each of them in their own rooms or spaces. They didn't need him right now, and he didn't know what to do when he wasn't needed. He could hear Raphael, pacing in his room. In his lab, Donatello's many computer monitors sent out blue light, machine light, dead as anything they'd seen in Bishop's lair. Leonardo didn't know how he could stand it. He knew he wouldn't want to see florescence in a long time, the sterile, too-clean, merciless gleam of it.

(_he is in the room and the body is on the gurney and it has michelangelo's mouth, it has, terrifyingly his face and structure of his bones but it has no eyes and he wants so badly to scream but raph, raph is doing it for him.)_

Leonardo jerked forward, breath hissing through his teeth and something clenched hard in his abdomen. Pain, revulsion, sorrow, he didn't know. It was worse knowing that this was only the beginning, that they'd only just started to try and cope, that they had months and months and years to work through. Right now, he was just trying to have a moment to himself without thinking of it. Without thinking of Michelangelo.

Across the room, Donatello finally extricated himself from the tangle of machinery and padded uncertainly across the floor. He looked searching, but aimless, looking for something to occupy his time, something to do to occupy his mind. He paused at the kitchen, leaning on the border of the room and apparently surveying everything in there, his face and thoughts hidden. Leonardo thought he might know what they were: 'what can I do to buy me some _time_?' And following that, the knowledge that nothing would ever keep the pain at bay for long.

In Raphael's room, he heard him cry out suddenly and then a sharp, heavy sound, a fist hitting a wall and cracking something. Bone or cement, he didn't know.

After that, there were some more muffled noises, this time of flesh against the leather of a punching bag and the outraged exhalation of breath as Raphael took out his anger. It was close enough to the sound of flesh against flesh to make him cringe, and the blows sounded off so quickly he wondered if his brother just wanted to exhaust himself. Could be.

Against the doorframe of the kitchen, Donatello's shoulders slumped down, his body closed in, as Raphael cried out louder, like an animal caught in a trap.

_When is it going to stop,_ he found himself thinking, and closed his eyes.

* * *

They told their human friends with just one phone call to April, whom they knew would pass the word on to the rest. (A short handful, Casey and Angel aside from her.) She picked up the phone, sounding breathless with concern and excitement- she knew they'd gone to rescue Michelangelo, she'd known who had taken him away. She asked the wrong questions, the ones that meant she'd had little doubt that he'd come back alive: 'what happened, is Mikey okay? are you all okay?'

The wrong questions. Their answers didn't fit into her assumptions.

"He's gone," he said, stiffly, and listened to her stunned silence on the other end. Tried to say it right, the way that wouldn't leave her asking again. "He's dead," he added, this time listening to how distant his own voice sounded. It became more real the more he repeated the news. "He was already dead when we arrived."

April's response was a gasp, a sharp intake of breath that caught on something that must have been tears. She stuttered on the words, tripping over the questions: 'how' and 'why' and stumbling over 'I'm sorry'. She offered to come over, offered to help and give comfort.

"I'm sorry," he said, "We all…need to be alone right now. We'll contact you." In a few weeks, a month, maybe. How long would they need to cope?

"Of course," April said, quiet, withdrawing already. Her voice was sweet, sympathetic. It would be missed. "Of course. Take all the time you need."

They didn't, though. They couldn't.

* * *

For a while, he slept.

He didn't know when he managed to get himself to sleep, only that at some time when all of them were bone-deep weary from the fight, from the fury, from feeling so much every nerve felt burned raw and aching, Splinter sent them to their rooms with an order to at least get some sleep. So, at some point in time, he must have allowed himself to lie down and rest. _When_ his eyes finally closed, he didn't remember.

The first time, there were no dreams. They'd exhausted themselves so much in the escape, in the fighting and the fleeing that he simply didn't have enough energy in him to fabricate dreams. Possibly. He didn't know what was behind dreams, really. So that, at least, was a moment of respite.

No dreams, then. There was just darkness and calm until- there wasn't, until the sound of something moving startled him awake. He went from asleep to conscious in half a second, reaching for the swords that leaned by his bed, whipping around to kill whoever had just intruded with his mind screaming _bishopbishopbishop_ and his pulse racing fast enough to blur into one rushing noise in his ears-

Donatello, smiling feebly, a sheepish, half-embarrassed look to his eyes, raised a hand. The smile sat wrong on his face, it wobbled and threatened to fall. "Sorry, Leo," he said, "I …thought you might be awake."

His hands, he realized, were clenched so tight on his weapons they were shaking- his hands, not the swords themselves. He was, he realized, sweating. For a moment, he couldn't work up a response. His breathing ran jumbled and confused as his heartbeat tried to settle down to a normal pace. "No," he said, finally. "No, it's fine."

Somewhere near him, there was a flame. He turned his head to see three candles, melted down to near stubs, flickering on what served as a bedside table. The wax dripped in beaded, molten lumps down the sides of their holders, and the plate on which they stood had a thin and greasy puddle of creamy-white wax. Leonardo watched a flame wink out and the smoke rise lazily before remembering a failed attempt at meditation, the candles refusing to hold his focus for long. And he thought, that's right. He'd forgotten to blow them out.

"I've been making the attempt to sleep," Donatello said, following Leonardo's gaze to the remaining two flames, flickering low and orange in their stubs, "I can't do it." a sigh, hesitant and trembling. "I keep seeing him."

"Donny," Leonardo said, pained.

"Not hallucinating," he clarified, with an uneasy sound that might have been a mirthless laugh, "I just can't keep myself from thinking, from flashing back to that damn facility. All I can see when I close my eyes is- him, on a table and laid bare, and if that is what I see when I'm awake, I don't want to know what my dreams will be like." His voice didn't shake, although Leonardo thought that it might, or should, and the near darkness of the room lit his face in heavy angles and shadows.

Leonardo almost shivered and managed to control the instinct, just barely. "Donny," he said again. Then stopped, feeling inadequate. What was there to say? He knew, after all, that he was inevitably headed towards his own nightmares. There weren't any comforting words he could offer him. "I'm sorry," he said at first, hesitating. Sorry for what? He'd been his brother, too. "I don't know what to tell you."

Donatello shrugged. "I didn't expect you to. There's nothing to do for it. I'll go to sleep eventually out of sheer exhaustion, if nothing else. I might even stop having those flashbacks- I probably will, when I think about it. I'm just so," he paused, searching for a word. "I'm so _tired,_" he said, almost plaintively. Then, definitely plaintive, "I don't want it to be tomorrow."

Sighing, Leonardo shifted, meaning to move closer to Donatello, as if physical proximity could comfort him where his own ability to speak had failed. He became suddenly aware he was still gripping his swords and stared at them numbly for a second before shaking his head and setting them aside. Still in arm's reach.

"It's not a very sensible thing to think," Donatello continued, almost to himself, averting his eyes. "It's just, it feels that once tomorrow comes, that's it. We already failed, but actually sleeping and waking up to another day and having it be so- so final, that he won't be coming back-"

Michelangelo liked to sleep in, but sometimes could be an early riser. Sometimes they'd caught him waking up long before his brothers and stirring them out of sleep with the sounds of him dropping mugs in the kitchen, or with the frantic, far-off clicking of the game controllers even with the sound off the video games. He felt a sudden pang of loss, enough to make his stomach twist up on itself and his eyes to prickle. One stab for him not being around for them to complain about in the mornings, one for the fact: _I am already thinking of him in the past tense._

"Yeah," was all he said, softly. "I know." This was his fault, his fault for waiting so long, for being so slow, and soon enough his brothers would place the blame where it lay.

Another candle winked out, sending banners of smoke up to the ceiling, and he rummaged around uselessly for the rest of the tea lights. He could flick on the light switch, he knew, but he didn't want the brightness intruding. It did feel like it would be an intrusion, now, with everything they were speaking of so dark and private.

As he was lighting the first one, Raphael peered in through the doorframe, his expression caught somewhere between lost and curious. "You two having some kinda séance in here?" he asked, the flippancy in the question doing nothing to hide how relieved he looked to seem them both there.

"Room for one more," Leonardo said, smiling grimly.

Raphael hesitated a moment, then entered, leaning uncomfortably against one of the walls and watching him light the candles as though it was actually interesting. Leonardo could see the marks of bruises on his knuckles, all the way up to the fingers on his hands. The swelling seemed to have gone down, so he must have stopped if only because he didn't want to actually break his hands. Not when it was unspoken but definite that they'd be going back, and compromising his hands would mean being excluded or keeping everyone else behind.

They stayed silent for a moment together, none of them knowing what to say when what they could say was either painful or obvious.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Donatello asked Raphael, sounding weary.

Raphael glanced away. "I slept," he said, quiet. It went unmentioned, but clear, that he wasn't in much of a hurry to return to that state. It seemed as though the night had not been very restful for any of them.

A moment passed. Leonardo cleared his throat, which seemed like one of those things one did in a situation like this. "I could make tea," he offered. The response to that suggestion was less than positive. Raphael snorted and stared at him like tea was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard of, and Donatello made an indulgent sort of sound and shook his head, presumably in pity.

"I don't think tea is going to help tonight, Leo," Donatello said, dry and too tired for the statement to have any of the sting of sarcasm. He was sure that, under less solemn circumstances, there'd be a snarky comment in there about tea not being an all-healing wonder drug.

He shrugged and went to make it anyway, and they ended up following him into the kitchen, although the door to their father's room remained resolutely closed. No doubt he was aware that they were up and moving around, but he didn't step out to join them. Leonardo wondered if Splinter had managed to get some sleep. He caught Raphael glancing at the closed door of Michelangelo's room, as if he was just waiting for it to fly open.

"I keep expecting him to come out again," Raphael said gruffly, catching Leonardo's eye.

Nodding vaguely, Leonardo went back to watching the kettle. That wasn't too unexpected a thought, since Michelangelo was (_had been_) a complete prankster and had, more than once, 'played dead'. He could see why his brother was caught waiting for the punch line, waiting for him to come back home and crow about how he'd fooled them all. Leonardo, though, had left the denial stage back in Bishop's facility.

"So what are we supposed to do, now?" Raphael continued, folding his arms. He looked uncomfortable in this situation, all of them together with everything to say and none of them knowing how to start, "Just start- talking about him or something?" there was a sneer on the edge of his mouth, the kind he wore when something hurt so much he wanted to guard against it.

Donatello looked at him, coolly. "Do you want to?"

"Shit no," Raphael started uncertainly, then glanced over his shoulder to see if Splinter had slipped up to the kitchen, "I mean, _no,_ I just dunno." He looked down at the table, his shoulders slumped, looking defeated. "What the hell _are _we supposed to do now? Mikey's just- gone. Just sit here and drink tea?"

There were probably several responses that could be made to that, all of them an attempt to deflect the question with humor, but humor felt out of place in this- it all felt too sincere, too raw for something like humor. "Yes, Raph," he said heavily, "We sit here and drink tea. You don't have to do that. You can go through another punching bag, you could do katas, you could try to go back to sleep, but nothing you do is going to help the fact that Mikey is dead."

Just the word 'dead' seemed to affect both of his brothers like a slap to the face. Donatello inhaled sharply, his fists clenching for a brief instant, and Raphel just looked down at his empty hands, his shoulders slumping downwards. For a moment, the death seemed as immediate as it had when they'd discovered it.

"I'm sorry," he added, quickly, tired. "I don't know what to do. That's all."

"I can't fucking stand this," Raphael said, a snarl working his way into his tone. "That's all."

The tea didn't taste bitter, or over-steeped, or sour for the lack of Michelangelo sitting there with them. It tasted normal, like green tea; grassy and fresh. They drank it and muttered about the caffeine being bad for a pre-bedtime drink and it was almost, almost like nothing had happened at all except for the empty chair and none of them smiling.

* * *

The three of them all ended up together that first night and the night after that and some nights after. They ended up crowding in Leonardo's room and just sleeping wherever was remotely most comfortable: on the floor, propped up against each other, sprawled out across a mat. Sleep came fitfully, grudgingly, a result of exhaustion only and not any real desire to slip into dreams.

They had nightmares, those first nights- they had expected it, but it didn't make the experience any better. They would wake, sweating, sometimes crying out, seeking out their other brothers in the dark. Mostly seeking out Michelangelo in terror and not finding him and remembering: _this is not a dream. You can't tear your way out of it to see him in front of you._

They'd have nightmares of the body, stripped and laid bare and made to look horrific. It was one of the terrible things about what had been done to him, that their image of their brother was ruined like this, was made into something gruesome. That they couldn't think of _Mikey_ without thinking about that mess on the table, and they didn't know when they could get past it. Another thing that Bishop had robbed from them.

Leonardo didn't the first time or the second time- actually he didn't remember how long it took him to do it. Once, upon waking in the night to another bout of panic, he actually went to Michelangelo's room.

It wasn't as though he really thought he'd find him there, but his feet led him to the place despite what his mind was telling him. Some part of him still expected to open the door and see him, sprawled out on his hammock in the careless way he would sleep- arm flung over the side, legs every which way.

Suddenly the thought was so real, so tangible, he almost _could _see him- a reconstruction of a familiar scene, of Michelangelo sleeping in when he should be awake and prepared. His mind filled in all the details, bits and pieces of something familiar as breathing, as familiar as his brothers' faces. Leonardo could almost feel the familiar firmness of Michelangelo's shoulder, could feel himself shaking his brother awake- felt the twitch it took for any of them to go from restfulness to alert and ready. He could even see the sleepy half-grin and hear the whining complaint '_just five more minutes?' _

That same comment, almost every early morning.

His mouth twisted into something like a smile- it felt like a smile, but it hurt to do it, it hurt his face and it hurt somewhere in his chest and his throat. "Five more minutes." he wanted to say, meant to say, but it came out in a rasp and he broke down halfway through.

At some point he became conscious of Donatello standing there, touching his shoulder with tentative gentleness and his eyes full of pained concern. "Come on, Leo," he said, quietly. "You shouldn't be in here alone."

It sounded so stupid, like the place was dangerous or like he was a child who couldn't be trusted to be by himself. He might even have taken offense if he wasn't busy being swamped with loss and if he didn't know that Donatello was right- he shouldn't be by himself here, none of them could take it. Thinking that maybe someday they could stand to be in this room alone was flooring.

Alone. Michelangelo had died alone.

"I should have told him to stay home," Leonardo said, thickly, heavy with regret, soaked through with the accusing thought of _your fault your fault, you told him to go._ "I should have gone with him." He thought of Michelangelo, poised on the threshold of home, on the threshold of _safe, _smiling at him. Remembered watching him leave.

"Don't do that," Donatello said, sharply. It cut through his thoughts in an abrupt verbal slice. "Don't you fucking dare."

Leonardo stared at him, surprised by the harshness of the response. Donatello looked back at him, anger beneath the worry in his eyes, his mouth tight.

"It isn't _you,_ Leo," he went on, "It's nothing you did. It's nothing about _you._ Don't try to take responsibility for this, don't try to put it on your shoulders. How could you have done anything about it? You always do this, and it's- it's selfish of you. You can't have all the blame."

He stared at Donatello, not knowing whether to be angry or bewildered, or just hurt. After a moment, he settled for confused. "Do you think I _want_ it?"

"Sometimes, yes," Donatello admitted, watching him sharply. "Sometimes I think you do. Do you know why?" it was obviously not a question meant for him to answer, because he continued briskly, "It's because I think you like thinking you can control this somehow, or maybe you just feel safer thinking that if you tried hard enough, you could have stopped it. Because it means you have the ability to. But sometimes, you can't, Leo. Sometimes this is going to happen, we get hurt or wounded or even- taken, and it's not your fault because nothing could have stopped it!"

"I know that!," he snapped, feeling cornered, "But I was _responsible_, Don. I was supposed to look after him- for all of you."

He remembered the Ancient One's lessons, but this was different. It wasn't an ancient alien nemesis, it was a human, with normal human underlings. Michelangelo had just gone for a walk, he could have prevented it by being with him. The situations just weren't the same. "I just wish I'd gone with him," he added, quietly.

Looking uncomfortable, Donatello softened his tone. "Just- don't start blaming yourself like that. It isn't your fault. How could you have known? We've all gone out alone, Leo. It could have been any of us." By the way he said it, it was clear he was wondering why it hadn't been him. "It could have been _any _of us at any time we decided to go roaming aboveground alone, and we all knew it. So don't you dare try to put this on yourself, like it was _ever_ under your control to begin with."

He shook his head, but didn't contradict Donatello, who was only trying to help. Leonardo knew better, though, or at least he knew how his own mind worked. He couldn't not take responsibility. He was the responsible one. Part of what he'd been taught, part of what had made him what he was, dictated that he was the one to be held accountable for the actions of his brothers. Anything, everything. Leonardo had been his leader, he'd been his older brother, and he had failed.

He had failed so _completely. _In everything, from how long it had taken them to realize Michelangelo had been taken and wasn't just goofing off, in how long it had taken him to track down the location of his brother, in the time he'd wasted just desperately searching and looking and never being good enough. Somewhere, his brother had been locked away and bleeding and he'd just been- stumbling around in the dark. Worse than useless. Leonardo didn't bother to _say_ any of this, though. There wasn't much of a point.

"Fine, Donny," was what he said, and there was nothing in his tone to make anyone think he actually believed it. His brother looked at him, his glance a reproach, and he met his gaze silently.

The light in Michelangelo's room was yellow, a soft yellow from an old bulb. It made him think of sepia tones and old photographs.

Donatello sighed. "Let's go," he said. And turned the light off.

* * *

Days passed. He pulled himself together without care for his needs, remorselessly forcing a sense of distance between himself and the thoughts constantly churning, unheeded, in a corner of his mind. Leonardo established a routine. Something simple, basic. They did it every day, anyway, so there wasn't much to follow.

Splinter sent them through daily exercises as usual, the same fluid kata and effortless stances. There wasn't much of a challenge in it, so it was clear that their father was giving them deliberately simple tasks to try to soothe them through the repetitive, easy motions.

It was simple, too, giving into the thoughtlessness of muscle memory, allowing his body to take over for his mind and just letting go of consciousness for a while. Clearing his mind as much as he could; a rare moment of relief for them, when none of them could even so much as reach the state of mental silence needed for meditation. Leonardo hovered in the space between consciousness and the free, silent emptiness of a meditative state. Too many things dragged him down.

Raphael went around with bruised knuckles from punches thrown too many times and sometimes at targets never meant to be used as punching bags. He struck out at walls, trying to crack the stone and cement and seeming to need the pain that came with it. He grimaced with each bruising punch, but didn't stop until Splinter tugged him away and sharply gave him a lecture about needless pain. That was accepted, but grudgingly, his silence and the look in his eyes speaking of dissenting thoughts. Maybe for Raphael it wasn't needless at all.

Still, he cringed at the new bruises on Raphael's hands, his knuckles purpled and swelling in a thick, puffy lump. His brother hardly seemed to notice the pain, he snarled and muttered angrily to himself while he sat at the kitchen table and waited for Leonardo to tend to his self-inflicted wounds. He radiated tension, the kind one had in a fight, just before pouncing or drawing a weapon.

Raphael glared at nothing in particular. "I'm sick 'n tired of this," he said, curling his abused hands into fists and making the bruises stand out more. He finally seemed to show some awareness to pain and cringed, uncurling one hand slightly. Leonardo narrowed his eyes at it, watching the way he tried to flex his fingers on that hand.

"You listening to me, Leo?" Raphael demanded, sensing his brother's attention wasn't fully on him. He sounded angry, but he knew well enough that the anger wasn't directed at him.

Leonardo looked away and took one of the rice bags out of the refrigerator. They were long, cloth bags filled with rice and either kept cool or warmed and placed on an injury, very helpful and very easy to make. "I wasn't aware you were talking to me," he replied, his tone even.

Raphael snorted derisively. "Sure you didn't. Aren't you getting tired of this? Just…sittin' around, doing nothing, while that- that _fucker_ walks free?" He glanced to the side before saying the word, clearly aware that their father was still in residence and could overhear it. It didn't seem appropriate. No obscenity could properly describe that man.

Anger rose up, sharp and still raw. His hands clenched as he tried to pull himself under control. "Of course I don't enjoy it," he said, carefully restrained, "But it's important to allow time for us to…clear our heads."

They all wanted to kill Bishop, to avenge their brother's death, but their grief took first place for now. Leonardo was practical in that, at least. They couldn't hope to fight Bishop without their wits about them, and especially not distracted by their pain and loss as they were, driving them to rash decisions.

"Besides," he said, frowning at his brother's bruised and battered hands, "You probably broke something. You won't be much use to us if you can't even hold your weapon. What were you thinking?" he handed him two Motrin and a glass of water. "Take that first."

Raphael's eyes narrowed. "Spare me the lecture, fearless leader. Splinter already told me off about it." He downed the pills without bothering with the water after scowling in disgust at the things. He never had liked taking his medicine.

"Maybe you need to hear it again," Leonardo said, his tone gaining an edge of its own, "Since things don't seem to sink in the first time around." He applied the cold rice bag to his brother's hands with a lot more delicacy than he'd just used to speak to him.

Surprisingly, Raphael didn't snap back. His shoulders slumped slightly. "I just want to _do_ something, y'know? Make that bastard pay for it. He needs to pay for it."

"I know," Leonardo said, quietly.

"I was playing that stupid Zelda game yesterday," Raphael continued, hardly seeming to be talking to him anymore, "You know, the one he's been- the one he was obsessed with. At least, he would have been 'til he got past it or found something shinier or some shit. But I figured, what the hell, I'll play it."

Leonardo nodded. He knew the one he was talking about, at least vaguely. They all played video games, with Donatello and Michelangelo the more avid players and Raphael and himself trailing in afterwards. Leonardo had been beginning to lose interest in the games now, and so didn't really pay much attention to what his brothers were playing at any given time. Games were pretty much games.

Still, it was hard to miss Michelangelo's enthusiasm for them and he had talked so much about them to anyone staying still long enough to listen that he picked up some knowledge about what he was doing.

"He saved the game on sixth level." Raphael looked at the table, his gaze hidden under the slope of his features, his brow furrowed. "Freakin' sixth level. He's never getting past it. Stupid thing to think of, I mean, when you think about all of it, but Mikey's stuck on sixth level in this damn game and he ain't never gonna finish it. And Bishop's walking around, working and torturing other people while Mikey's- gone, and can't even finish his damn game, Leo. He's never even gonna play another again."

There were tears running down Raphael's face. He rubbed at them in irritation with his fist, then looked at Leonardo with a hard expression.

"So what do you think?" he demanded, "How long is it going to take for us to get on with it? How long do you think it'll take us all to 'clear our heads'? I know mine ain't never gonna be clear until I've seen Bishop's corpse. I don't even have to kill him myself. I just want him dead. But you tell me, Leo, do you think we're ever _really_ gonna be okay until then?"

_Or even after, _was what he didn't say.

They stared at each other for a moment, Raphael demanding, Leonardo measuring his own words, trying to think of something that could help his brother's rage. There wasn't anything he could say to help. His own fury hadn't been conquered yet.

"The decision isn't up to me," Leonardo said, finally.

Raphael huffed a breath and finally broke his gaze and turned away, looking in irritation at his injured hands and wrapping them back under the bag. "Yeah, fine," he said in a mutter.

Leonardo looked over at the dim array of televisions and wondered if any of them would want to play any more video games after this, or if those would be as closed to them as their brother's room. How many more facets of loss did they have to discover?

* * *

Later on, Donatello would say that it had been due to severe stress over a prolonged period of time, and Splinter was old, and that meant increased risks for things like that. It made sense, put like that, but for them it had been another breaking point. Splinter had always been, to them, untouchable.

Everything had seemed normal enough, as normal as things could be at that time. They'd been set to kata exercises again- more difficult, now that Splinter had seen that they were ready to move on, to become more prepared for the attack on their enemy they knew they had to carry out. It was still rote, so unthinking that they all focused their minds on other things while they ran through the exercises, waiting for Splinter to set them to spar.

Their father hadn't seemed well, but that had been understandable. He'd been rubbing at the side of his head, looking discomforted, but they had simply assumed it to be a stress headache.

Later on, he'd be angry at himself for that too, for the warning signs being there but him not seeing them. For being ignorant of their father's distress. He regretted so much. Too much, maybe, but that didn't stop him regretting.

At some point during training, Splinter started to worsen. He shook his head from side to side, looking disoriented, like he was trying to clear his brain, then stumbled to the side. It was enough to make them pause in what they were doing. Leonardo looked questioningly at Donatello, silently asking if he knew what the problem could be. His brother shrugged and turned back to Splinter, who was watching the floor with an expression of confusion. His hands were at his side, one clenched into a loose fist, the other barely flexing.

They'd learn, later, he was looking at his left arm, that had suddenly numbed.

"Master Splinter," Raphael said, questioningly, cautiously approaching. "Anything wrong?"

Splinter shook his head again, not in dissent but another attempt to clear it. His expression suddenly contorted with pain, and he lifted both hands to his head, making a hissing sound as he did so, then cried out in pain, clutching his head with agony. By the time he fell back, all three of them were there to support him, laying him down on the floor and looking at him helplessly.

Splinter tried to speak to them but his voice was slurred, the words garbled together. Leonardo grasped his hand, not knowing anything else to do.

"What is it?" Raphael asked hoarsely, panicked, "What happened?"

Donatello's voice sounded heavy. "I…I think he's having a stroke."


	12. gainfully employed

**Ourobouros Complex**

**By**: Serendipity

**Chapter Eleven**_: gainfully employed_

* * *

April opened the store at noon every day, which left her mornings free to either sleep in or laze around with some coffee. Today had been a 'sleep in' day, mainly because the night before had been spent catching up with some old friends and she hadn't realized where the time had gone.

That said, she wasn't at her sprightliest when she hung up the 'open' sign, and by the time four o'clock rolled around, she was wishing she could take a break for a nap. Some might call it unprofessional, but there you had it.

Too bad the store was actually pretty busy for a weekday; a handful of women looking at the jewelry and some of the furniture, and a couple men inspecting various pieces of memorabilia. She leaned an elbow on the counter and let her mind drift a bit, watching the window blankly.

_I should probably check to see if any of the customers need help, _she thought, a bit self-reproachfully. _Maybe I should brew some coffee or tea for caffeine. _That might give her some extra pick-me-up, and it didn't lose her any business. Winning situation. Now to persuade herself to get up and do it.

April was aware of the door opening; it was kind of difficult not to with the bells tied to it, jingling to alert her of someone walking through. She didn't bother to glance at it, though, so she wasn't aware of who her newest customer was at first.

"Can I help you?" she asked in her friendly, professional voice, glancing toward whoever it was who had just walked in. She narrowed her eyes when the whoever it was turned out to be the kid who'd been sneaking around in her basement- and apparently in the guys' old homes. "What did you want today?" she asked, her tone a little more edged, "A candy bar? Another trip to the basement?"

Steve at least had the grace to look embarrassed. "Uh, no. Um. Look, I'm sorry about that. I was- I don't even know. Sorry." He seemed increasingly uncomfortable with each word that came out of his mouth. "Sorry," he repeated, then looked down at the countertop, averting his eyes from her gaze.

"Who are you, anyway?" she asked without any inflection whatsoever.

He chose the most obvious interpretation of that question. "Oh, right. I'm Steve. Kalawinsky?" he added with a note of inquiry, as if he himself was not aware that was his name.

"Mmhm." April tried to gauge what was going on in this kid's mind. He'd tried to come in here to gather information about _something,_ and he must know that the guys were on to him by now, if what Donatello had told her was in any way accurate. Which, of course, it was. He didn't have much to gain by coming back here and trying to speak with her about anything, which meant he was either a really stupid or a really desperate spy. Either option wasn't really safe for her.

"Did you come back here just to apologize for sneaking into my basement?" she asked flatly, tensing her muscles as she shifted slightly into a more solid stance. She didn't necessarily expect an attack in her store, in broad daylight, but as she'd previously thought, stupid or desperate spies didn't behave sensibly.

"No," he said quickly, glancing back up, "I mean, no. I guess I should have, right? Wow. I'm sorry. That was pretty stupid of me. Um. Let me start over? I'm really sorry about going down there, I shouldn't have, that was really dumb."

She just raised an eyebrow at him, clearly demanding for the kid to just get to the point already.

"I just wanted to ask something," he added, interpreting the look quickly enough. "About the, uh, the people. Um, who were in your basement. You know. That one time." Steve crossed his arms, looking extremely uncomfortable about this whole conversation.

This was quite possibly the clumsiest interrogation she'd been subjected to. Either the guys had been really over-exaggerating his effectiveness when they talked about him being a spy, or he was purposefully trying to look inept.

April crossed her own arms and kept her eyebrow raised. "You sure you want to talk about 'the people in the basement' around all these people in the store?"

Steve glanced around and seemed to finally realize that there were people in the store. None of them were looking at them with rapt attention or anything, but still, clearly onlookers and passersby. Not a good place to talk about giant turtles or maybe threaten people, if it came to that.

"I guess not?" he said, stating it as a question rather than anything definite.

"No," she said firmly.

"No?"

"No." April turned back to the register as a customer drifted up with a selection of teacups and gave them a bright smile. "Did you find everything you wanted? Good!" she said, ringing them up with the foolish hope that the kid had taken the message and left. There were only so many ways you could take 'no,' after all. When she'd finished wrapping up the china, putting it in a bag, and had waved a cheerful farewell to the customer, it was a bit of a surprise to see him standing there still, looking a lot like a lost lamb.

But only a _bit _of a surprise. He was clearly bad at taking hints.

"You're still here," she said flatly, giving him a severe look. "Why?"

Steve looked like he'd rather be suffering five root canals than standing in this store at the moment. "I just- look, all I wanted was to ask a question, that's all. I'll leave after that, just- can you please answer it? It's kind of important." he looked at her entreatingly.

She narrowed her eyes at him with great suspicion. "What kind of question, kid? I might not answer. And I'm definitely not answering questions about my basement people when there're customers here, so just put that idea out of your mind."

"I can wait," he said quickly.

April surveyed his expression. He didn't look like someone eager to question her, although he was obviously quite keen on getting the answer to whatever the question was. In fact, he looked…worried. _Very_ worried, as a matter of fact, something that went a touch beyond normal concern. Whatever it was he wanted to ask, it seemed to be important. He either wasn't good at schooling his features or he just left all of his emotions open on his face- one was more likely for a spy, the other more likely for a normal teenager.

Screw it, she decided. If worst came to worst, she could take him. "Fine," she said. "Stand right there where I can see you and don't try any funny business, or you're out on your ear."

He nodded compliantly, still looking abashed, and stood by the counter as the remaining customers shuffled through the store, making their selections or simply browsing. Her store didn't get much traffic, so it didn't take too long for the customers to clear out, but it was long enough she expected the kid felt he'd waited for ages.

April watched him out of the corner of her eye as she helped wrap things up and directed people to various purchases. Steve didn't stand still, but no kid his age really did. His restless energy made him shift position, fold his arms, glance at the clock, pick things up and look at them and then glance back to her and put them guiltily down. Eventually he folded his arms again and sat on a customer-friendly chair by the door, staring blankly at no direction whatsoever, still not looking inclined to leave.

"All right," she said briskly, once the door had closed on the last customer. Steve startled and looked up at her, and she gave him a non-nonsense look. "What is it that you want to ask me? Remember, I might choose not to answer." Especially if it was anything that compromised the safety of her friends. Of course, a smart person should have factored that in by now, but kids these days.

Steve seemed hesitant at first, but seemed to realize that her patience level for him was set at low. He went to stand by the counter again, not comfortable with discussing this from any distance away. Fine with her. Close enough to grab him if he tried anything. "Well," he started, "I was doing some urban exploration, um, down in the sewers a couple days ago-"

"I know," she said brusquely. "You ran into them, they kicked you out again. What did you expect?"

"Uh, not to run into giant turtles?" he exclaimed, then toned down the noise level as the fact he was in a somewhat public place sunk in. "I mean, I really didn't expect to meet them- like… anywhere. Especially not there. Anyway. They said that if I ever came back, I wouldn't be coming back again. So-"

"Which makes me wonder why you're showing up here," April interrupted dryly. Was he seriously coming crying to her that the guys had gotten rough with him after he'd intruded again? That was what this surreptitious meeting was about?

"Look, I just wanted to ask a question, okay?" Steve said, sounding frustrated. "I'm not trying to cause trouble or anything, I just want to know. I mean, do they attack everyone who shows up in the sewer? It can't be everyone, right, because there would have been news or…something about giant turtles attacking!"

April smiled slightly. "Well, yes, but that sort of requires witnesses, doesn't it?" she asked in perfect deadpan. Instead of being irritated, Steve paled at her joke. She blinked, surprised.

"So- they do attack people, then?" he asked, with a note of urgency in his tone, "I mean, just to anyone who happens to be down there?" He had his hands on the counter, his fingers curled slightly to give him the look that he was gripping it. "Are they going to threaten them first, or just- would they just kill someone if they were there?"

"No!" April said, with more force behind the word than she'd intended. Steve stared at her and she lowered her voice. "No," she added, stressing the word, "They don't just _randomly_ attack people." _You should know that_, she wanted to add, but kept herself from saying it. What kind of spy was he, anyway? Didn't they tell him these things before sending him down.

The thought occurred to her that no, they actually told him nothing before sending him down after the guys. They really could have just given him locations and numbers and nothing else. She felt a little bit of pity stir up.

"It really depends on what that hypothetical person is doing down there, first of all," she continued, "Anyone sneaking around where they shouldn't? Yeah, they'd probably be upset at that." April raised her eyebrow at him, silently asking for elaboration. Honestly, he could be trying to make them look like the bad guys and get her on his side. Which was new, she gave him props for that, but only new because it was completely ridiculous.

Steve hesitated a moment.

"I don't have all day," she pointed out, glancing meaningfully at the clock.

"It's about my dad," he said finally, "He's working on a project down there and he's not doing anything- he's doing something for the government, I don't know what it is, but he's just fixing the sewers or something. Or watching people fix the sewers, I guess, 'cause he's not like a maintenance worker. So, would they attack him if he's down there? Are they going to just show up and start throwing them around or something?"

For a moment she studied his expression and found nothing but honest concern, nothing in it that would make her think that he came to her for any other reason but to ask about his parent's safety. He met her gaze easily enough, if not nervously and as if he was expecting bad news. She hesitated, trying to think of what to say to him. April knew who his father was and who he worked for, and none of it would endear him to the turtles. She didn't _think_ they'd kill him, but she wasn't honestly certain what the dad was after, either. If he came after them with weapons, they would fight back. Maybe even lethally.

Her silence seemed to frighten him more. "If they are, I don't know what I'm going to _do_," he added, clearly frustrated, "I mean, what am I going to tell him? Stop coming to work because of the giant turtles? I can't say anything to keep him out! They won't- like, eat him, will they?" His eyes widened as this new horrific thought occurred to him.

At that, April stepped in. "No," she said firmly, "They don't eat people. They're not monsters."

He looked at her dubiously.

Rolling her eyes, she continued. "Really," she said sincerely, "They're really great people. They just don't like strange humans poking around their business. That doesn't mean they'll attack workers or anyone who actually has a right to be messing around in the sewers."

"But-" Steve started, clearly about to air his grievances about his treatment.

"But nothing. They threw you out because you were alone, unauthorized to be there, taking pictures where you shouldn't have been, and were poking around in one of their private areas," she said, looking at him sternly. "That said, they didn't kill you on the spot, did they? You seem to be walking around just fine."

"I wasn't a couple of weeks ago," Steve muttered under his breath.

April pretended not to hear that. She'd gotten the full account of Leonardo 'maliciously breaking the kid's ankle' from Donatello, who seemed slightly, if inappropriately, amused at his brother's guilt complex. Still, she wasn't about to undo all their hard intimidation work by telling him that the big, scary turtles were really sorry about the whole injury thing.

"They don't kill innocent people," she said, finally.

His expression was doubtful. "Are you sure?" he asked, catching her gaze and trying to see if he could see the certainty in her face. She realized then that it wasn't just concern in his tone, it was fear. The kid was terrified of them and terrified to think of them attacking his father, and small wonder. To normal human beings they seemed monstrous, and the idea of having them after one of his parents must have made him feel extremely helpless.

It was that note of terror that softened her expression. "I'd stake my life on it," she said, trying to sound soothing. "Look, I've known the two of them for a very long time. Longer than you've been alive. They've never attacked someone who wasn't doing them harm."

It probably wouldn't do to add that meant if his father wasn't an innocent, if he had harm in mind, then they wouldn't stick to just scaring him off. There wasn't any reason for her to frighten him into talking to his dad, especially since she didn't understand the whole situation as it was.

The guys didn't seem to, either- they'd just told her the kid seemed to be skulking around their places for some undisclosed reason that they couldn't fathom, but seemed to have something to do with Bishop. Was the father forcing the kid to do that? Or was he just sending him to places in the sewers without telling him why? If his father _was_ responsible for sending him to those places, he couldn't be aware of this meeting. Steve clearly had sought her out by himself on his behalf, not that his father deserved the concern. Something to think about, anyway.

"Does your father know about you visiting the sewers?" she asked, watching his face for any signs of dishonesty.

He looked well, he looked guilty to be sure, but there wasn't any of the nervous eye-flickering or the surreptitious gestures that came with a lie. "No," he said slowly. "Well. It's not like I'm _not _allowed to. It's just that I haven't…actually told them that I do it yet." 'Yet' was set in there with the definite implication that Steve didn't intend to tell his parents about traveling around in the sewers until long after he'd stopped.

April hid a smile, despite the gravity of the discussion. Either completely honest, or a very good actor. And as there simply weren't many actors that good at this kid's age, she was starting to learn towards 'probably honest.'

Steve glanced around the empty shop and leaned towards the counter slightly, the pose so distinctly one of someone about to tell a secret that she leaned forward herself, unbidden.

"Did you get dreams about them too?" he asked, quietly and more hurried, like he was already regretting that he let the words leave his mouth.

She just stared at him.

Sensing that this was perhaps a horribly creepy thing to say, Steve tried to do some immediate backpedaling. "I mean, like, before you met them," he tried to explain. "You know?"

"Nooo," she said slowly. "In fact, not at all." April looked at him with some amount of suspicion, trying to calculate his sanity. He didn't look like a raving lunatic, but those could be deceptive. "Do you?" she asked, curious to hear how he described dreams about the turtles.

However, the complete skepticism in her tone seemed to turn the kid off on explaining anything. He just looked away and sighed, the line of his shoulders clearly disappointed in her response. "Never mind. Well. If you didn't- I mean, how did you meet them, then?"

"They saved my life," she said simply, watching his eyes widen with surprise. April sighed, trying not to get irritated on her friends' behalf. "And wipe that disbelieving look off your face, kid. You people all think they're something that walked out of a B-rated horror flick, but they're not. They're just- people. And they're really great ones at that."

"They attacked me for _no reason_," Steve ground out.

She leaned forward and pointed a finger at him. "No, _you_ broke into one of their places and were sneaking around inside, and then they decided to chase you out. Have you even seen them before that? And don't bring up my basement. They had really good cause to chase you out of the basement that you decided to enter without my permission. Seems to me you have a long history of sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Steve looked embarrassed at the mention of his escape from her basement. "I didn't- I don't mean to," he said quietly.

Snorting, she turned her head away and examined her nails. "Well, forgive me if I don't exactly believe you on that point." Especially since he had at least given the appearance of staking her place out for quite a while before finally making the move to broach the security of her store's lower level. Seriously, that looked nothing but planned.

"If you weren't planning on breaking into the basement, then why go down there anyway?" she asked, "You couldn't possibly have thought it was an add-on to the store proper."

At that, he looked awkward. "I- it's hard to explain." he said.

"Kid, I am friends with two giant turtles," she offered. "Try me."

He hesitated, opening his mouth slightly and closing it again as he deliberated.

April considered rolling her eyes again and decided against it on the grounds that it wouldn't be very helpful to persuading this kid to talk. "Is this about the dream thing you were talking about earlier?" she asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of her voice and only being moderately successful.

"Not…really? Well, maybe. Sometimes," he said, watching her expression as he fumbled through the explanation. She attempted to look patient, which apparently worked well enough because he kept on going. "I mean, it wasn't for the basement. I just, I don't know," he looked down for a moment. "I just really felt like I should go to the store, at first. Kind of like I remembered it, maybe? Only I don't think I've ever really been here."

At that, she couldn't keep the expression of doubt off of her face. "You found yourself inexplicably drawn to my store," she said flatly. Really? This was probably the worst excuse of the decade. She saw his expression closing off again and tried to tone down the disbelief, if only for the sake of questioning him. "Why down to the basement then, if it was just the store that you wanted to visit?"

Steve glanced at the basement door and looked embarrassed. "I don't know. Just another, uh, I guess feeling that I should go down there. No, I felt like I was supposed to be looking for something. I'm sorry, I know that sounds really weird."

_No, it sounds unbelievable_, she thought, _as well as poorly fabricated. But you honestly sound like you believe it. _

However, that was not what she chose to say, since she figured it would keep him from talking for good. What she said was: "And what about dreaming about them? What did you mean about that?"

"It happens sometimes," he said shortly, obviously not willing to discuss it. Probably hadn't figured out all of the details in that particular cover story, or he was realizing how much of a really bad lie it had been.

April folded her arms in front of her, leaning forward a bit. "Before you met them?" she questioned, pressing for more.

"Yeah," Steve answered, reluctantly. "For a while, anyway. Not a lot of them, though," he added, looking away.

He opened his mouth as though he was going to add something to that too, but decided against it at the last second and instead glanced at the clock. It had barely been an hour, but he raised his eyebrows as if a lot of time had passed, anyway.

"Well, I'd better go home," he said, slinging his backpack a little more securely on his shoulder. "Uh, thanks for answering my questions, anyway. It's kind of good to talk to someone who's also seen, y'know, giant reptiles. Makes me feel a little less… like I'm going nuts."

Her lips quirked up into a wry smile at that, she understood the feeling from her first few meetings with the guys and the bizarre happenings that seemed to follow them. "No problem," she said. "If you feel like feeling sane again, feel free to drop by."

She got a smile for that, shy and hesitant. It even seemed genuine. All of his expressions did, really. The label 'spy' was ill-fitting for this boy, who seemed only confused and worried, not interested in information about the turtles so much as proof that they were real and not a threat. Her offer had been prompted by that, the worry and the fear. _Is this kid really even dangerous? _she thought, watching him. Considering his previous actions, he seemed too clumsy to be a true threat.

No doubt he'd stop by without the invitation anyway, if he was truly spying on them. Maybe not, depending on what the reason was for him dropping by this way. Still, the offer sparked something in her mind.

"Hey," she added, impulsively, "Steve. Do you have any time open after school?"

The kid looked at her, confusion in lines across his brow. "Yeah," he said. "Some, when I don't have band practice."

April smiled at him, unfolding her arms and leaning back in her seat. "Well," she started pleasantly, "How would you like it if I offered you a job?"

* * *

The position would actually be stock boy, but really the bulk of the work she required from him would be organizing the stock, so to speak, in the room downstairs. It was a storage room, and in it she'd placed years and years worth of items she hadn't bothered to take out of their boxes, stuff she'd found a bother to sort, items she had an overabundance of, and even boxes that had been donated to her, stuff people had taken out of their attics or basements or old houses and had no use for.

She'd started organizing them at some point, and had tried to keep them in some kind of basic sorting system, but really it was a collection of piled-up boxes and shelves that were half-empty with this and that. It looked like some kind of fantasy land of junk when the door was open. Very imposing.

Steve stared at it with kind of an impressed horror. "What happened here?" he asked, clearly thinking out loud without any real expectation to be answered.

April answered anyway. "An overabundance of stock and a lot of failed attempts to clean. Fortunately, I have you here, right?" she patted Steve heavily on the shoulder. He seemed to be wondering about whether or not obtaining that work permit was a really good idea. "Come on, look at it this way. You spent a good deal of time trying to get down here, and now here you are."

He reddened a little at that comment, still embarrassed about his short stint in breaking and entering. "I wasn't _trying_ to-" he started, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Yes, I know, I know. Anyway, you'll mainly be working down here unless I need you to stock the shelves upstairs or restock the candy, which is pretty much the only thing that needs restocking on a regular basis. Your main duties are organizing this mess, which I actually suspect is going to be a life's work."

"Organize it _how?" _he asked, clearly still dazzled by the clutter.

April laughed. "That is a good question, isn't it? I'm assuming the usual ways.. You know, taking the boxes out, looking through them, putting things on shelves. Feel free to get creative if you feel like it, though. If you feel like you need storage bins or labels, don't hesitate to ask. I have a label maker upstairs I can give you to start out with, even." There's furniture in there, and it's important that it's kept in one piece, so don't try to move it if you think you can't.

Steve was now looking around inside the room, peering around the stacks of boxes and staring at the occasional table or cabinet, which were also laden with boxes or random items of clothing and merchandise. He turned back to look at her, his eyebrows raised in a helpless expression. "Okay?" he said, unsurely. "Any way you want me to put anything?" he asked, clearly looking for some kind of direction.

"Surprise me," she said, mercilessly. Hey, as long as he was poking around, he could be useful. "You have three hours a day, Tuesday and Thursday, so try to figure out a system that'll work for you. I may or may not call you in on Saturday, depending on whether or not I want extra hands, but I will contact you on Thursday or Friday beforehand. You get paid eight dollars an hour. Sound good?"

Steve seemed a little overwhelmed. "Sure," he said. "I mean, I have to ask my parents, but it sounds- good, yeah. Why, though?"

"Because that's the minimum wage," April said, absentmindedly looking at a couple of snow globes sitting on a dilapidated metal shelf. They were pretty dusty, so whatever was inside them was obscured by a thin film of fluff. "Try to dust a little in here too, will you?"

"No," he said, coming over to stand by the door frame, poised to leave. "I mean…why offer me a job?"

She focused on his expression. Open, honest, curious, still awkward. Not even the slightest trace of duplicity. "Because you obviously have too much time on your hands," she said slowly, watching his expression go from curious to uncomfortable and embarrassed, "And as you can see, someone needs to fix this mess. Why not you?"

It was a reasonable question to ask, she thought, after she'd herded Steve out with some information for his parents to read. Why was she doing this? Sure, he didn't seem like the most skilled informant in the world, and he seemed like a nice enough kid, but he was still pretty suspicious on the whole. Capable, at least, of getting through Donatello's security, and that was too impressive to be pure happenstance. Somehow knew where they used to live and even about her store, which was also on the suspicious list. Even if he wasn't a spy, he wasn't immediately trustworthy.

But there were other things about him that just didn't seem to add up to what the turtles had told her. His genuine fear for his father's safety, for one thing, where an honest-to-god spy would at least know that the guys didn't attack on sight. How he seemed to know very little about the guys at all. Sure, that could be a front and a lie, but she really didn't think so. She considered herself a pretty good judge of character, partially out of self preservation at this point, and the kid had never seemed anything but genuine. Then, the excuses that would be clumsy and ridiculous coming from an actual spy's mouth. Wouldn't someone working for Bishop have formulated a better excuse than that? Didn't add up.

Steve, taken as an informant, was full of contradictions. The most she could think was that he might just be a tool, that someone was giving him the vaguest of information- locations and numbers, and sending him off from there. Maybe to see where the guys lived, but coming from the man Steve's father worked for, she would expect something a lot more subtle and efficient. No, it didn't really make much sense for them to be using a kid like that. So why? The kid was, she admitted, something of a mystery, and she'd always liked those, had an irrepressible urge to try and solve them. April couldn't really help being curious about just who Steve was and what he was trying to accomplish, especially when he seemed to be going at it haphazardly.

That, and the fact that she felt sorry for him. Whatever he was, he was just a kid, and he was clearly being used. By his own father, it looked like. How could she _not _pity that? It wasn't even like she could do much for him. Although, maybe being offered a job with her could keep him from stumbling into any more dangerous sewer locations. Maybe.

She smiled slightly, self-deprecatingly. _Admit it. You're just nosy. _

And it was a given that the guys wouldn't be too happy about her offering someone they thought was a threat a job at her store. So, that mean not disclosing this information for a while. It was her store, after all, she could hire who she wanted, presumably.

As for threatening, how much of a threat could a single teenager be, really? Steve wasn't physically intimidating, didn't seem hostile so much as worried, scared and confused, and the only information he'd asked for was whether the turtles were a threat to his father.

Even if he _was_ out for information, any that he could possibly glean from her would be everything the enemies already knew: she was friends with the turtles, and they visited her from time to time. Perhaps he could also memorize the layout of her store, but that would be useless information as well. If he turned out to be an informant, he'd be getting nothing interesting out of her and she might be able to do something about him. If he didn't, she'd still have a new stock boy.

Having convinced herself that this was actually a valid decision on her part, she turned to the more difficult issue: how to convince the guys that this wasn't a horrible action. It wasn't as if they'd never find out, although they very rarely visited as early as Steve would be working. With any luck, he'd be with her for a while before they did.

* * *

Steve was punctual, which was good for a kid his age. Well, he showed up at _about_ four o'clock, but she wasn't going to get upset about a couple minutes difference. He had his backpack dangling loosely from his shoulder by a strap and still seemed uncomfortable about the thing. She imagined that might have to do with having broken into her basement and stalked the place for a while.

April handed him a clipboard and a label-maker, and directed him downstairs.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked with a note of helplessness, gesturing at the clipboard.

"What I said before," she said, taking it from him. "Look. At this point, I don't even know what I have in there. I do to some degree, but mainly I'm clueless because it would take a lot of time to sort out, time that I either don't have or I don't want to spend. Steve, you are that time-spender."

The kid nodded as if he understood, when the expression on his face told her that what he was thinking was more along the lines of 'I will wait until sense is made.'

She sighed. "Before you try coming up with an organization system, I'd like to have an idea of what exactly I have down there. Open up the boxes, sort through them, write down basically what I have. You don't have to get super specific and you don't need to bother with coming up with price estimates- leave that to me, but just generally jot down what you find. I have a bunch of unused, flattened boxes down there you can use for storage if you want, so throw the ratty ones you find away."

"Okay," he said, taking the clipboard back. "Uh, what if I find something broken?"

"If it's broken or moth-eaten or dead, throw it out," April said, waving a hand and ignoring the look he gave her when she said 'dead'. "There's a trash can down there; one of the big, black plastic kinds. You'll be able to spot it. All the cleaning supplies, including trash cans, are located in the closet. Second door to the right. There's a restroom down there as well, the door under the stairwell."

Steve seemed to take all of this in, standing in the doorway leading down to the basement. He glanced down uncertainly, like he was expecting something. April read into that look and made a face, neither a smile or a frown, more of a tightening of the mouth. "They're not down there," she said, patiently. "They usually only visit at night, anyway, and it's still afternoon. Besides, they're never here when they know I have customers."

Relief flashed over his face. "Oh," he said, "Yeah, I guess they wouldn't." Like he hadn't even thought about it before.

She waved a hand at him, tired of trying to decipher what he was planning on doing here. "Go on, go to work," she said, not unkindly. "Make sure you be careful with the stuff, some of it is very fragile. Don't sling the boxes around."

"Kay," he said, already heading down the stairs. After a second and a quiet click there was light shining from the stairwell, flat and yellow, and his footsteps headed down. She heard a door opening and then stopped paying attention, deciding to head down occasionally to check on his progress. It wasn't like he could get in much trouble down there, anyway, even with the door to the sewers. Especially since that door was locked.

She sat back at the register and went back to fiddling with an antique radio that needed fixing. "If I hear a crash or an explosion, that kid is fired," she muttered under her breath.

* * *

As it turned out, she didn't have to worry. To his credit, Steve was actually a good worker once he figured out what he was supposed to be doing. He had careful hands, some patience, and a pretty admirable organization system going on.

The first time she went down to check on him, April walked downstairs with a sense of trepidation, expecting to see carnage and a confused fifteen year-old. Instead, she saw- well, she did she carnage, but also a fifteen year-old who seemed at least moderately confident about this stage of the operation. Steve was sitting at a folding chair, surrounded by the contents of several gutted boxes, putting some articles of clothing in a pile to his left.

"Hey," he greeted. He didn't look overwhelmed so much as just bored. God knew how long he'd been sorting the paraphernalia in there. She glanced over the stuff on the floor. Mainly clothing, some fragile objects wrapped in brown paper, a handful of knick-knacks, and some kitchen utensils. Nothing stellar as of yet, but he'd only just begun to unearth the stuff in there.

"How's everything going?" she asked, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe.

"Okay," he said, drawing the word out unsurely. "Some of this stuff is really weird. Did you know I found a box, like, completely full of ceramic dogs? Just dogs. I don't even know why someone would have that."

She smiled. "Part of working here. We get sent almost anything and you can find almost everything. Sometimes it's genuine antiques, sometimes it's just stuff people had lying around the house. Although I'd really like to just open up a plain old antique shop, instead of the mismatched operation I've got right now." Antiques sounded a lot more reputable than plain old secondhand stuff, and she sold both of them but definitely favored the former. Besides, they were more interesting than secondhand clothes and appliances. It wasn't like she sold most of the really crappy stuff she bought- that she donated or just threw away, but still.

Steve looked confused. "I thought it _was _an antique shop?" he asked.

She smiled. "Well, I do like to call it that, but 2nd Time Around has its share of secondhand merchandise as well as antiques. Most antique stores sell collectibles as well, which is the word for anything too young to be considered an antique, which means anything about a century old. Secondhand stuff is not as pricey and people buy more of it, which is good for me. Kind of like how I sell candy, too? Especially the old-fashioned kind, for the nostalgic types. We're more high end than a thrift store, less so than someone who actually specializes in restored antiques. And let me tell you, restoring is a pain in the neck."

Speaking of which, there was that table in the back that needed repair work on one of the legs. Ugh.

He was looking a little lost, so she patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. You won't actually need to know most of this stuff with what I have you doing." His work ran more along the lines of cleaning, organizing, and occasionally ringing something up, so she didn't worry much about teaching him the language of the trade. There was that, and the fact that she didn't know how long the kid intended to stay if she was actually being spied on. There wasn't much he could learn here, so she expected him to give up in at least a month, if information was his goal.

"Oh, cool," he said, sounding relieved. "Anyway, uh, I think I'm going to organize them by- you know, what they're used for? Like, clothes go in one place, and then stuff for your house, and maybe another shelf for the glass and things?" he ended it all on a questioning note, as if waiting to be immediately corrected.

"Sounds fine." April turned back towards the staircase. "Well, if you need anything, just come upstairs. Business isn't really booming at any time of day, so I should be good to help if you need it."

Steve nodded at her, frowning at a grotesque Harlequin doll that seemed to be a cross between a Picasso blue period and Ronald McDonald. As she left, he stuck it in a box to the side, presumably to be placed in the shelf of Things Too God-Awful to Consider For Resale.

She wondered, idly, if this was going to make it to the mission report: "Dear Bishop, today the O'Neil woman made me sort a lot of tacky frippery and sweep her floor. The evil plans are otherwise progressing. Mwahahaha."

Ah, the joys of hiring possible teen spies. Her life really was a bizarre made-for-TV movie.

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks, he continued to make some progress in the room, which meant of course that her basement floor was sacrificed for the master plan. Not that it wasn't possible to walk through it: he'd made a nice little path cutting through some of the piles, making it easy for her to access the main storage room and the bathroom and very little else. She decided to go with the idea that all of this mess meant some kind of progress and left it at that, but still checked up on him at random intervals to see what he was up to. Usually he was packing something in a box, unpacking something in a box, or dragging a box somewhere, so nothing overtly suspicious-looking was happening in the basement.

Heck, maybe the whole awkward situation with the possible spy would just end up with her being able to find stuff yet again. He certainly didn't seem interested in talking about the turtles too much, keeping their conversations strictly in the realm of employer and teenage employee; the topics stuck mainly to what a nice day it was, how to organize the storage room, all the really weird stuff he'd found in the storage room, and where he was supposed to put _this _random thing, anyway. It had just been a couple weeks and all, but so far, so good.

April didn't press for _too _much information about his dream excuse- she'd tried to get more details about his story, but he seemed to be embarrassed about talking about them and even that he'd brought it up in the first place. She couldn't blame him, the story was horribly unbelievable and didn't make him look particularly good, either. Seriously, mysterious dreams about people you've never met? Sounded like a fantasy novel.

Anyway, with her stock boy buzzing around downstairs and taking care of the cleaning for her when he wasn't making headway on her mess, she was getting a nice chunk of free time after hours.

She was using some of it to start restoring an antique fireplace- sanding off the flaking, yellowed paint to expose the pristine wood beneath it. It was done in rococo style, curls and curving designs, all of which were a pain in the ass to sand properly, but she was making pretty good headway on it. April was considering staining the thing afterwards, maybe a nice cherry wood color.

The phone rang, penetrating the thick silence that settled after the store had closed its doors to customers. She'd brought the cordless one from her computer desk down to the basement with her, and it cut through her thoughts with its shrill, harsh ring. Sighing, she answered it, clicking the speaker button. "Hello?"

"Babe?" The familiar voice was enough to make her drop the sandpaper, it fell to the floor, half-worn and shabby.

"Casey," she said, toning down the excitement she felt in the tone she answered him with. "It's been a while." She felt rather than saw his answering cringe, the pause speaking for his awkwardness. It wasn't as though she'd asked for him to call every week, but he hadn't called in almost a month, and although they'd communicated using email, she always preferred the more personal method of the phone.

He finally just sighed. "Right. Well, uh, I'm sorry. She- well, she wasn't bein' as honest as I thought about sticking to the diet, so her insulin levels started showing it and she went hypoglycemic. And then we got into a fight and I had to spend some time calming her down, you know how she gets, and meanwhile the car broke down and that was a real b- a real pain in the butt to fix."

That admission made her feel selfish for being upset when he was dealing with so much over there. "Oh god, is she okay?" she asked, half-ready to drive over to lend a helping hand, store or no store.

"Yeah, it's just something wrong with the fuel injector, so I have to drive over-"

She snorted and relaxed a little. Silly her for worrying. "Casey, you _know_ I meant your mother. Although with a response like that, I guess I can assume she's fine."

"Fine _now_," he said, sounding fondly frustrated. "Sometimes I feel like she's givin' me a hard time outta spite for me being a punk when I was a kid, y'know? Like some kind of mom revenge thing. She's usually the most sensible in this whole family."

April privately thought that Casey's mom retained as much of a stubborn streak as any of them, and that usually led to the opposite of sensible behavior, but didn't bother saying it. "Could be," she said, "I'm not sure if I could survive raising you as a kid. Your mom must have nerves of steel by now."

"Yeah, well," he said, sounding awkward again. "I keep trying to get her to move in with me back at my place, but she's having none of it."

She snorted. "Casey, have you seen the state of your apartment lately? That's probably for her own sanity." Him not living in it for a while had actually been good for its overall state- instead of looking cluttered with mess, it simply looked disused. Still, she'd seen it while he was living there, and it was a quintessential bachelor pad, complete with dirty dishes, clothes lying about, and random paraphernalia all over the floor. And weights. Lots of weights.

Shaking her head, she shifted the phone to her shoulder. "She'd probably have a stroke trying to clean the place up."

Casey laughed. "Who said she'd be cleaning it? She'd be working me into a stroke cleaning up my own place. Come on, you should know her better than that by now."

That was true enough, her own first meeting with Mrs. Jones had her peeling a whole heap of apples. She wouldn't be at all averse to making Casey clean up his own mess, and good for her. "Well then, I see no negative side to her moving in with you at all. It'd be a good influence on the place."

"That's what I said, but she's not much of a city-dweller. Likes it better on the outskirts, she says, although I'm thinking of taking her to the farmhouse for some fresh air and R&R, you know? Not like she'll actually take it, but I figure it'd be good for her. The place is looking good now, actually, with all the work we've been doin' to it."

The 'we' he used included the guys, who had taken to occasionally heading over to the farmhouse to rest and use as a place to hunt for food to add to their supply. Hunting for their meat was less costly than using what money they had to buy it, and easier on the conscience than stealing. They'd fixed a shed up for smoking and curing, which had been fun to explain to Mrs. Jones when she walked in on hooks hanging from the ceiling and a big bag of coarse salt. At some point she gave up, deciding that as long as they weren't burning the place down, it was fine.

"Sounds good," she said. "How is she doing now? Better?"

He snorted. "Complaining about me riding her ass about the diet all the time. I say 'darn straight, I want to still have a mom around for my grandkids,' and she says _I'm _being a nag. Me! A nag! From my own mom! Anyway, I dunno what I'm gonna do with her. I think the hospital trip made her see some sense, maybe."

"Great," she selected a strip of sandpaper and inspected the grit size. Too fine for this stage of the proceedings. "How's the outlook on the job?"

Casey made a noncommittal sound in response, but didn't seem frustrated about it. "Eh, lookin' okay. I might get something as a youth counselor in a hospital, hopefully. The commute won't be fun, but it won't be this crappy-ass construction job."

"Don't let the kiddies hear you talking like that," April smiled, "You'll get fired the first day. Be a role model. I still can't believe you got a degree in child psychology of all things. Seriously. You. Mister loose cannon himself."

He chuckled. "Yeah, well. Being a butt-kicking vigilante wasn't on the options."

Despite her surprise that he'd decided to further his education, and her double surprise in his choice of subject- although, in hindsight, it shouldn't have been too much of a shocker, she really was proud of him for going the extra mile. She had to admit she didn't think Casey'd had it in him to pursue something academically, but despite struggling with the structure, he'd managed to make it through. His mother had been particularly proud of him, too, something she thought had added weight to his decision to get a degree.

"How are the guys?" he asked. "Raph still wandering around?"

"Yes. Well, he still checks up with me to say he's doing fine, so there's that." She couldn't keep the melancholy out of her voice. It had never sat well with her- with anyone, really, that he'd broken off from them so completely after Splinter's death. And while of course he did come back for visits, she wondered how his brothers, especially Donatello, must feel about it. She'd heard enough of his rants on the subject to know he'd been hurt and upset by his departure, and that he still felt upset about his sporadic visits and frequent silence. As someone with a sibling of her own, she couldn't imagine breaking contact so completely.

Sensing her discomfort, Casey tried to lighten the mood. "Yeah, uh, well. That's great! At least we know he hasn't crashed his bike somewhere, right?" The joke fell flat, since Raphael had smashed up his motorcycle before, sometimes with disastrous results. He cleared his throat and moved on. "Ah, well, you know Raph. He always comes back sometimes, right? Didn't you make him swear to come by for Christmas this year?"

She half-smiled. "True." And only with proto-big sister threats and nagging did she manage to get that out of him. "How about you?" she asked, impulsively, "Are you coming by any time soon?" It came out with an edge she hadn't meant it to have, turning it into an almost accusation instead of a question. She could have sworn she hadn't used to be this pushy.

Casey paused before answering. "Well, of course," he said, sounding put on the spot, "I mean, I always _try_ to come by soon."

"I know," she said, "I'm sorry." She said it quietly, under her breath, almost an undertone. "It's just- been a while since I've seen you."

"You want me to come by?" he asked awkwardly. "I mean, I can try to swing it sometime soon, if you're really- I mean, if you want me to-"

"No, it's fine. Don't put yourself out on my account." April cringed at the way the words came out, sounding too acidic, too biting. She sighed, irritated with herself. "I mean, it's just me being... edgy right now. It's been a long day, I'm sanding down something and I hate doing that, and I haven't eaten yet. Don't mind me being moody."

"Well, hey," he said, stumbling with the words, "It's not a trouble or nothing. Hey! You can come on down to the farmhouse whenever I drag mom over and it can be like a family trip! How about that?"

The thought of the two of them united in bossing him around startled her into a laugh. "You sure you'd want that? It couldn't mean anything good for you. You know what happens when the two of us team up, Casey."

"Well, it'd be worth it, right?" he said, sounding relieved by her change in mood. " 'Sides, you sound like you need some cheering up."

"I don't know, I might be busy with the new guy in my life," she said teasingly.

"What?"

"New stock boy. Fifteen years old, polite, good at following directions, and possibly a spy."

Casey snorted. "For what? Toys R' Us?"

They spent the next few hours catching up, talking about silly things like April's disaster with an old sewing machine and Casey's attempts to bake pie, not so silly things like Casey's mom and her hospital stay and the suspicions about her new employee as well as what the guys were going through, and just stupid, boring things like the weather and how much taxes stunk. It was calming for her, engaging in some perfectly normal, mundane conversation about nothing and even having another human being to discuss some of this weirdness with.

That was the problem with most of her problems: too frustrating not to talk about, too weird to talk about with anyone normal.

"So," Casey said, when the tale was finally unwoven. "When are you planning on telling the guys you hired this kid? You know you gotta tell them, right?"

April deliberated. "Well, I was hoping to have him work for me for a while before I spill the beans," she said. "You know how they can get. I don't want them getting upset and worried and overprotective."

He snorted. "Babe, you could have the kid working with you for a month and they'd still be worried. Especially when he sounds that suspicious. Not saying he's not a great stock boy, maybe even an okay kid, but you gotta admit something's up."

"Well, yes," she admitted. "I'll just need to think of a good way to bring it up to them. Something that won't end up in them flipping out or waving their weapons at someone. You know. A nice, calm, subtle way."

"Well, better you than me," he said, sounding amused and a little concerned. "Keep sharp with that kid around, though."

As if she didn't know _that, _she thought, hanging up the phone a short goodbye later. As if she hadn't been trained to some degree herself. Of course she'd be careful. She _was _being careful.

Still, she figured it was better the guys didn't know about her new employee just yet. After all, what they didn't know, wouldn't hurt them, right?

Right.


	13. desperate times

**Ourobouros Complex**

**By**: Serendipity

**Chapter Twelve**_: desperate times_

* * *

It wasn't as though Leonardo had a _problem_ with Donatello playing games online. It was more that he wished that he didn't schedule that time when he wanted to do something. He knew this was a completely unreasonable and selfish thought, so he kept it firmly to himself as he watched Donatello's bizarre cattle-creature lumber across the screen, an animated pet jack-o-lantern in tow.

"So you're the cow today," he said laconically, as a large red dragon swooped into the scene, apparently being ridden by a humanoid in armor that was being played by someone with a sense of dignity, and was therefore not anything bovine.

"It's a Tauren, not a cow," Donatello corrected, not even sounding irritated and also not glancing up from the monitor. At this point, the remark was probably reflexive, as automatic as swatting a fly. "Can I help you, or is it just time to pester me out of boredom?" he added, as his character did something presumably magical, judging by the sudden bright colors and flashy hand motions.

He didn't bother to bring up that Donatello himself had more often than once pulled the 'bother older brother Leo out of boredom' trick himself. "Well, I did want to know if you were thinking of the time. Have you noticed it?" he asked, giving the clock a sardonic look. It firmly remained at five PM, a blatant reprimand for his distracted brother.

Unfortunately it went unnoticed. Absolutely no attempt to glance at the clock was made by Donatello, who continued his epic battle onscreen. "Mm," he mumbled, too preoccupied to bother with a proper response.

Sighing, Leonardo stepped a little closer to the desk. "Don," he said, trying to make the words sound solemn but having them instead come out as tolerant and amused, "You have no idea what time it is or even what day it is, do you?"

"Is that your brother?" came an irritable voice from, presumably, a few states away and in a basement somewhere, "Is it you guys' honeymoon or anniversary or something?"

Letting out an irritated moan, Donatello sat back and finally paid attention to him. "Yes, it _is _my brother," he said to the disembodied voice, rolling his eyes. "I'd hoped it was a hallucination of some sort."

"You're hilarious," Leonardo informed him. "Also, you're about to be very late. Be happy I came over to talk to you at all. I could have just arrived at April's without you and explained that you found playing a mighty cow warrior to be preferable to her company." He smirked as Donatello's eyes widened. "There's the light bulb going off," he said, "Finally. I was beginning to worry that video games really did rot your brain."

"Ha ha," Donatello said, turning back to the computer. He looked slightly sheepish as he addressed the assemblage of gaming voices. "Uh, you guys, it turns out that I had something planned this evening." This was met by a small chorus of groans and a bevy of complaints.

"Come on, man, you're the only healer we've got on right now," whined one of them. "How are we going to do this thing, we need someone to heal for us and we've only got tanks." The other members of his group joined in, trying to make up for this new absence.

"Isn't Anya coming on soon? She's got a troll shaman, right?"

"Yeah, but we have no idea _when_ she's coming over. I don't know, someone text her."

"Who's got the soul stone?"

"I thought someone had an alt healer. Dave, don't you have a shadow priest?"

"Yeah, like that is going to help when the druid's gone."

Leonardo left his brother to make his goodbyes and apologies as the group rehashed strategies and talked about things like 'potting' and 'tanking', whatever that meant in the terms of game mechanics. Once again, he didn't begrudge Donatello whatever social activities he could make for himself, but the gaming thing completely flew over his head. Especially the vocabulary.

Eventually, looking slightly shamefaced, Donatello disengaged himself from the computer, grabbed his staff, and headed over to the door.

"You do realize the irony of you playing that game, right?" he asked him, teasingly, as they made their way out the door and through the sewers, "You're playing a nonhuman warrior character who spends most of his life fighting… in a game all about escapism."

"_Actually,"_ Donatello said primly, "It's a _female _warrior character. And non-reptilian, so I would say escapism remains." He managed about half a straight face for that comment, his serious expression failing somewhat in the quirking line of his mouth. Then he realized what he'd just said and groaned. "Wait…"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Don. I didn't realize you had dreams," Leonardo joked. "Did you want to talk about it? You know you can talk to me about anything-"

"That is going to be a comeback I'm going to regret making for a week," Donatello groaned. "Isn't it?"

"I can get you books," Leonardo continued, grinning at him, "There are all these internet support sites you can look up, I'm sure."

Donatello covered his eyes with one hand in a classic pose of frustration. "I hate you."

"You know you can just stay here if you really need to think about this, Don. I'm there for you. I'll just tell April you couldn't come because you were busy exploring your gender. And your species, apparently."

In response, his brother just groaned again, this time more dramatically. "My stoic leader is exhibiting a sense of humor. That never turns out well for me. It's like your humor does splash damage. It's just not fair." He shook his head sorrowfully, then glanced back at him. "Oh, did you call April before you dragged me out of my chair to tell her that we're coming?"

"Trying to change the subject?" he smirked.

"What, you had _more?_" Donatello asked in tones of despair, "Really?"

"I will always have more to say when you make an ass of yourself, Don," he said, affably.

Sighing, his brother reached for his shell cell to make the call. "At least spread it out, that's all I'm saying," he groused, "Don't just dump all the snark all at once. It's better that way. I get more recovery and you get to look forward to something. Everyone wins!" He started to dial the number, but Leonardo reached over and stilled his fingers.

"Don't," he said, "Let's just surprise her." They did that on occasion, and most often it was a pleasant surprise on her part. Unless of course they were on the run from some kind of criminal element, in which case the whole affair became very hurried and not relaxing or fun at all. Hopefully this would be the former, not the latter.

"And you're being spontaneous, too," Donatello commented, putting the shell cell back as he spoke. "I find that suspicious. Maybe I should do some kind of scan to see you're still the real you, instead of a bizarro world clone dropped here to torment me."

He grinned at him. "Don't worry. I'll be happy to force you into extra training or meditation to prove that it's really me. And I won't go easy on you, because how unlike me would that be?"

"Ugh. Like you don't do that already. I suppose your true bizarre world clone would be blissfully merciful and just leave me to my own devices." He looked ahead of them, at the bricked tunnel walls, and grimaced as though he saw something he didn't like. "So. Did you manage to ask Karai if she had any idea on what's going on down here?"

At the mention of that less-than-enjoyable subject, Leonardo frowned. He usually could get an audience with Karai any time he wanted, in person, but that was partially because it was usually a crucial occasion when he dropped by himself instead of sending a message. This time, he'd just sent an email to her asking if they had any information on what Bishop was doing in the sewers, and it was taking her some time to answer it. He assumed she was busy with her own better left un-thought of goals to do more than skim through her mailbox, and as the CEO of a corporation, she was undoubtedly swamped. Still, he was thinking of getting more directly in touch with her.

"She hasn't responded yet. That could either be because she hasn't read the message or she doesn't have the information yet," he said. "I think they do have a mole in with Bishop, so hopefully they can find out what is happening. Have you caught anything suspicious from Kalawinsky's work email? I'm assuming you're still tracking it."

"Still looking at it, and nothing helpful so far. It's all pretty general or vague, or just plain unrelated." Donatello shook his head. "I also dropped by the site to check it out, and there are more people there now. Looks like they were working on it, so I didn't get too close."

Leonardo's mouth tightened as he considered the situation. More people working in the area was a problem if they wanted to get close enough to see what exactly they were up to. "I suppose we should try again at a different time. Did you get close enough to see what they were doing?"

"Not exactly. They're installing something into the walls, but I couldn't see exactly what it was, and probably won't be able to unless I can inspect it close up. It could be anything. They could be putting in air fresheners, for all I know right now." Donatello shrugged in frustration. "We can take explosives off the list, but there are other worst case scenarios."

Worst case scenario: flooding the sewers with poisonous gas intended to kill them was still likely enough. Of course, it was possible that Bishop wasn't targeting them at all with this- he'd been uninterested in hunting them down ever since he'd got what he wanted from them through Michelangelo's dissection and murder. And even if he wasn't, this wasn't very subtle for him, and he must have known they'd notice the construction. Sending the kid and being open about the construction project could be an effort to diver their attention from something else, or it could be an effort to drive them out of the sewers themselves to make way for whatever ungodly project he was planning on working on down there.

"We'll have to drop by later next time. Get an idea of the schedule of maintenance," Leonardo said. "See if they're really air fresheners or something more sinister," he added, trying to lighten up the tone of the conversation. They were supposed to be going to see April, after all. It wouldn't do to show up like harbingers of doom, even if that was what he felt like most of the time.

"I can't imagine a more sinister scheme than scenting the sewers with pine freshness," Donatello said, with gravity. Still, the joke faltered a little with this particular foe still on their minds. Neither of them could scrounge up too much humor as far as Bishop was concerned. It was usually caught up under the wave of bad memories, old rage, and fear.

Leonardo was hesitant to bring it up, but if what Bishop was planning really did involve making the sewers uninhabitable, they would have to start looking into other options for living space. They could and sometimes did go to Casey's old farmhouse, mainly on hunting trips, but they couldn't live there indefinitely and there were few places in the city proper that could house them with the amount of privacy they needed. They could find abandoned subway tunnels, probably, but those also tended to have human inhabitants.

Hopefully, Bishop only was going to use one area of the sewers, and they would just need to relocate. Although, sharing the sewers, even distantly, with that organization would be enough to give him tension headaches and goosebumps twenty-four seven. That was much closer to the EPF than he ever cared to be.

He was tired of thinking about this. The two of them walked in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Probably Donatello was thinking the same thing he was, but neither of them bothered to voice their fears. It would happen soon enough.

"So, Don," he said, finally, breaking up the silence. "Your alternate cow ego. Does she have a name?"

"We're not starting this again," Donatello said flatly. "We're really not starting this again, are we?"

"I just want to know the other name of your soul," he said, calmly. "You know. Just in case."

"Oh god," Donatello groaned, the pretended irritation in his tone not quite hiding his relief at the subject change. "It's happening. I'm going to have to kill you in order to save my own sanity and stash your body in a nearby culvert. Don't do this to me. Don't turn me to fratricide, Leo, the power is in your hands."

He smiled slightly as they neared the tunnels that led to April's basement. "So, what did your group decide to do without you there to be the wind beneath their wings?"

Donatello shrugged. "They were still debating when I left. I'm pretty sure Anya came in, though, and she should be fine as the back-up healer." He launched into a summation of the quest they were doing, and Leonardo tuned out slightly, letting it flow as a wave of background sound. He managed to get the gist of it, usually, but mainly he found it better to tune it out when Donatello got involved in explaining in-game mechanics to him.

They finally made it to the door at around the time the store was closing up. "I wonder if she's still working on the fireplace," he commented. They'd offered to help with sanding it, but April preferred to do all of the restoration on the furniture herself, asking only occasionally for help in toting the heavier pieces around. Of course, all the restoration work she did neglected her stock organization to the point where both of the rooms downstairs were full up, but she claimed she enjoyed making the antique furniture beautiful much more than she liked sorting old linens and knick-knacks.

"I think she must be getting close if she hasn't finished it by now," Donatello said. "She was sanding it two weeks ago, from what I remember."

"Looks like she's down there already," Leonardo commented when they got to the door. A little bit of light shone out under it, showing that the basement was occupied for once. He pushed the door open quietly and they walked inside, hearing the sound of someone walking heavily around. She probably was carrying something.

"Need a hand?" Leonardo asked, stepping out of the wall that hid that side of the basement. He cut off his sentence when he saw who was standing there instead of April. Steve, carrying a large box and looking like a very frightened deer caught in headlights, stared back at him.

Anger flooded him, a rush of heat that left him feeling unbalanced with its suddenness. It was reactive at first, not rational- just an automatic response to someone they had labeled 'spy' that sparked all of his defensive instincts, his shallow-buried rage. Then the frustration that came because of this kid, this one in particular, who they kept trying to drive away time and time again as gently as possible, and he still turned up like a bad penny as if daring them to turn violent.

All of this flashed through him in the time it took to blink, leaving him feeling tense and razor-edged.

Steve stumbled back and turned to flee into the stockroom, but Leonardo was across the few feet that separated them in no time, gripping his arm tight enough that he was sure it was going to leave bruises on the boy's fragile human skin. Good. "What-" he started to snarl out, then shook his head and didn't bother with questions, because he wasn't going to get any honest answers out of a spy.

Through his peripheral vision, he saw Donatello standing nearby, his expression stony. Not attempting to hold him back at all. "What did we tell you would happen the next time we saw your face around here?" he asked. His voice didn't get harsh with anger; if anything it went clipped and precise, a testament to his attempts at control.

Steve struggled to reclaim his arm, but Leonardo gripped him hard enough to make him gasp in pain. "I'm not doing anything!" he exclaimed, a tremor of fear running through him, causing his voice to tremble.

His temper flared. "Shut up," he growled. "You broke into this store's basement before, and you have no more right here now than you did then. You should know how we treat your kind by now. How far are you planning on pushing your luck?" he shoved him suddenly, violently, sending him stumbling over a box to land on the ground. It wasn't a hard landing, something that gave him a sharp and sudden feeling of disappointment.

The kid scrambled to a sitting position and scooted backwards, watching them with wide eyes. There wasn't much room for him to maneuver and he ended up only a couple feet away with his back against an old bookshelf, looking around wildly for an escape that they didn't intend to give him. Leonardo stepped forward, forcibly cornering him, leaving no room for him to run. "How many times do you think we're going to let you go?" he snarled.

Steve seemed unable to look away. "But-" he stuttered, "But I didn't- I'm not doing-"

"Liar," Leonardo interrupted, coldly. "A liar and a thief, too. What were you trying to steal?" he asked, glancing over at the box the kid had been carrying when they'd arrived. Stealing, or planting equipment here in April's own basement. Gritting his teeth, he fought the urge to lash out against him with force he might regret later. Not that he wouldn't have to resort to something dire this time around, the third warning had been harsh enough he thought it'd be sufficient. Apparently it hadn't been.

But at that accusation, the kid seemed to get his voice back. "I wasn't stealing _anything. _I _work_ here!" Steve said, glaring up at the two of them. Despite the implied defiance in his glare, he was backed up as far as he could go against the bookcase, his body language tense with fear.

Of all the unlikely excuses the kid was likely to feed him, Leonardo hadn't seen _that_ one coming. It was so blatantly, completely unbelievable that it was practically an insult. "You? You work here?" he said flatly, disbelief dripping from every syllable. As if April would hire someone who had tried to break into her store.

"Yeah! She hired me!" the kid pointed up the stairs, clearly indicating April. "Go ahead and ask her if you don't believe me!" He glared at him defiantly.

In response, Leonardo hauled him up by his upper arm again, dragging him to a standing position. Ignoring his protests, he pulled the kid along with him towards the stairwell, hauling him up the stairs as he took them as quickly as he could. If the spy wanted to make flimsy excuses, he should have expected they'd call his bluff on them. At least he'd stopped struggling so much. Wise decision, since every time he tried to, Leonardo increased his already-firm grip. If nothing else, he'd have black and blue handprints on his arm tomorrow. Not that it'd be enough of a warning to stay away, apparently.

"April!" he barked from the top of the stairwell. "April, come over here!"

From the store floor, he could hear her footsteps hurry over. The door opened enough for her to see them, not enough to possibly reveal them to anyone inside the store. "Oh," she said, weakly, "Hello, guys."

The tone in her voice stopped him from starting off with a list of accusations against the kid. The way she'd said that- sheepishly, almost reluctantly, was proof enough to back up the kid's story. Along with that, the lack of surprise in her face when she looked at Steve showed that she'd known well enough that he was in her basement.

An entirely different kind of anger flared up in him and he forcefully pushed it aside, leaving him with an almost queasy feeling in his stomach as he tried to keep himself calm. "He says you hired him," he said accusatorily, watching her expression turn from uncomfortable to defensive.

April glanced at the kid, who gave her a desperate look back. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. "I did," she said, firmly. "He's doing work as my stock boy."

Leonardo grappled with his furious response to that for a moment, and Donatello stepped up from behind him to take control of the conversation.

"April, what are you _thinking?"_ he demanded, clearly frustrated with the lack of foresight shown here. "You hired him? You're willingly allowing _this _to work for you?" He emphasized that by shoving Steve forward, making him cry out in surprise. "Don't you realize what he is? How many places we've found him- or evidence of him? Of all the kids in New York, you chose the one who's spent god knows how long stalking us-"

"I wasn't stalking you!" Steve protested, trying to turn his head to face his accuser.

Leonardo gripped his arm harder and pushed, banging his shoulder into the doorframe. "Shut up," he snarled, "No one asked you."

April scowled at him. "Stop that," she said severely, taking the kid's shoulders and steadying him. She didn't take her eyes off of Leonardo though, narrowing them in her patented big sister glare. "Don't punish him for being here when I told him to come. Let him go, for heaven's sake, I'm sure you've already made your point."

"We'll have made our point when he stops skulking around," Leonardo snapped, but released Steve with a bit more force than necessary. The kid stumbled a few steps forward before stopping a little beyond arm's reach of them. He stepped a little closer to April, since her proximity seemed to give him the illusion of protection.

"The facts are condemning, April," Donatello said severely, giving Steve a distrustful look. "He's been seen in at least three of our areas, not to mention the ones we know he's frequented before. He's taken pictures. He broke into your basement before, and now you're just letting him in? This is- you're just playing around with your safety! It's dangerous to even allow him near you."

The thought of one of Bishop's operatives, even a pint-sized, halfway-incompetent one, was more than troubling, it was terrifying. There were so many options he'd have open to him if he wanted to target them through April- setting up bugs in her basement, setting a bomb, or otherwise arranging some kind of disaster. Just thinking about it was enough to push his temper one step further. He curled his lip at Steve, who looked as though he was counting down his last minutes. By now, though, he recognized the kid's initial fear reaction as short-lived. It couldn't be too severe, or else he wouldn't keep constantly creeping back into their lives like a particularly obnoxious plague.

April pursed her lips. "I think we should send Steve home before we continue this conversation, don't you?" she asked, pointedly.

Leonardo and Donatello both looked coldly at the kid, who seemed half-poised to fly out the door anyway. Steve backed up again at their stares, probably thinking they were going to make sure he wouldn't escape. That fear wasn't too unfounded- had he been an adult spy, this would have cost him his life. Then again, an adult spy wouldn't have survived their first encounter.

"You would do better to stay there," Leonardo said, in warning. A waste of breath, because none of their previous, harsher warnings had managed to keep him where he belonged.

"I'll call you," April said firmly, ignoring their disapproving looks. Steve walked slowly to the counter, where he retrieved his backpack with a certain degree of caution. He took another glance back at the tense scene behind him before fleeing into the relative safety of the city, no doubt off to catch a bus home.

She turned back to them, folding her arms in a too-familiar gesture of defiance. Not a good first sign.

"Why are you doing this?" Leonardo asked directly, getting straight to the point. "You didn't need to hire anyone."

"Have you seen the state of the rooms downstairs?" April asked, sounding dry. "I figured I'd have to start clearing it out soon or I would run out of space altogether."

Donatello's brow furrowed in irritation, his mouth tucked sharply downward in the expression he usually wore when something was going badly wrong with a project. "Don't joke about this. If it was just about needing a helper, you could have hired any other kid. Any other, and probably someone old enough to work without needing a permit. This is just- I don't know what this is. Why would you just give him a job when he's obviously trying to get one to insinuate himself closer to us?"

"He didn't come here looking for a job," April said, annoyed. She leaned against the doorframe, getting settled for a long talk. "He came here because I was the only person he could talk to about you, and all he wanted to do was ask if you were going to attack his daddy for being in the sewers, too."

They looked at her flatly and she frowned. "Are you?"

Donatello sighed. "April, we don't even know what Bishop is doing in the sewers, what they're working on, whether it's a weapon or a surveillance system or…some especially elaborate scheme to misdirect our attention. The answer is yes. Yes, we will absolutely attack him if this is going to be an attack on us."

She looked troubled, but not as though she hadn't anticipated the response.

"You didn't tell him we wouldn't, did you?" Leonardo asked her. She shook her head, waved her hand at them to dismiss the question.

"No, I just told him you don't attack people unprovoked. I just hope you don't have too, is all. Steve is- he _seems _like a nice kid." April rested her hand against the doorframe in a bracing gesture and frowned, more deeply this time. "Even if you think he's a spy."

"He _is_ a spy," Donatello insisted, exasperated. "It's the only thing that makes sense. If he wasn't, why would he be snooping around so many of our old lairs? How would he know the location? How would he have recognized us when he saw us, if he was just a normal kid? Nothing about him implies that he's anything but a spy, or informed by some other source about who and where we are."

"And since his father is in the employ of EPF," Leonardo said darkly, "I think we can guess who has been informing him."

She frowned, hearing that. "I know all that, it's not like I haven't kept it in mind. But something about him doesn't really fit with the whole spy angle. I mean, for one, he's informed- but not very well informed. He doesn't seem to _know _anything about you aside from the generals- you live in the sewers, you're giant turtles, etc."

"Maybe he's only _acting_ like he's poorly informed," Leonardo suggested. They'd taken his apparent ignorance into account, too. Some of it made sense, sending a kid into dangerous spaces would be a lot easier if the kid didn't know how dangerous those spaces were. They might have sent him to certain locations and told him they weren't occupied- although that would mean that Steve was incredibly gullible, seeing that they'd caught him out four times by now.

"Either way, he's still invading our spaces for suspicious purposes," Donatello said. "Does it really matter why he's doing it, when we know it has to be under command of someone from the EPF? It could be that Bishop doesn't know about this and the father is sending him out there for his own purposes, which can't be good. It could be that Bishop actually does know about it and he's sending him here to distract us or use against you. The odds of him being completely harmless are unlikely. Are you willing to gamble it?"

"I'm not afraid of what he could do," April said, jaw set stubbornly. She had folded her arms and braced her feet in an obstinate stance, body language reflecting what was in her mind. "It's my decision to make in my own store."

"You're not just gambling your life, April," Leonardo said sternly, "You're putting us at risk, too."

She frowned at that reprimand, but her eyes softened a little. "I wouldn't spill any information about you guys to any spy, you know that. Besides, he hasn't asked anything about you- even though I think he'd like to." April pursed her lips, thoughtfully. "He hasn't tried anything, really. I really don't think he's as much of a danger as you think he is."

Donatello released a quick huff of air, frustrated. "He doesn't _have _to do anything aggressive to be a threat. Just his very existence here is threatening. He doesn't have to attack you outright- right now, or verbally threaten you, or obviously pry for information. And maybe you're right, maybe he's not here with full knowledge of what he's doing. It's possible he's just a tool, not a weapon or an enemy. But still, he's a weakness. An enemy unaware of his position isn't a friend."

Their words didn't seem to be having the effect they wanted, unfortunately. She seemed to be taking their advice into account, certainly, but her brow was furrowed, her mouth was set into a frown, and her arms remained folded, defensive. There was nothing in her posture that suggested she was about to relent any time soon, logical arguments or no.

"If it's really about you needing help, we could clean up and organize those rooms for you," he said, "It's not like we're doing anything else with our time. But we both know this isn't about you needing someone to help you clear out those rooms, is it? What are you trying to plan with this, April? Trying to get information out of him?"

Next to him, Donatello stifled a groan. "April, that's not the best idea."

"And why not?" she asked archly.

"Because!" his brother said, trying to explain in a way that would reach the stubborn brick wall that was April, "If he is a spy, and you try to question him, he'll most likely direct the conversation so _he _is getting more information out of you than you are getting from him. You're not used to handling interrogation, you definitely aren't experienced with handling spies, and you might- accidentally let something slip."

"Oh? You don't think I can handle being questioned by a fifteen year-old? That's wonderful, that's a really high opinion you have of my mental capacities."

Donatello spluttered. "That's not what I meant! I only meant that you have to be cautious- all the time, and you're not used to exercising that level of caution. Anyone could spill some kind of information, intelligent or not. It's a danger to have someone like that around, no matter how young or sympathetic or how much of a 'nice kid' he seems to be!"

"But you don't know if he's a spy at all," April pointed out. "This is all just conjecture. I can see he's obviously _something_, but that doesn't mean he's going to pump information from me. He might not be here to attack me, even. What if he doesn't even know himself what he's doing? Can't you just try talking to him about it?"

Leonardo closed his eyes and forced himself not to groan at that statement. It wasn't April's fault that they had kept her mainly in ignorance over the specifics of the less peaceful parts of their lives for years now. Experience had taught them not to talk to them, not to give them the benefit of the doubt, and not to believe them once it was clear they had come after them. Once so many coincidences lined up, it was obvious enough what this kid was- only his age had kept him from meeting the same fate as the other informants that had managed to sneak down into the sewers. The idea of talking to the kid was naïve.

He shared a glance with his brother. _She doesn't understand. _It was evident that they wouldn't be able to persuade her, since she was being so stubborn about it.

Still, Donatello wasn't about to give up dissuading April. "We don't _talk_ to them," he said, finally. "What guarantee do we have that what he's telling us is the truth? It doesn't benefit us to listen to lies and misdirection."

She just frowned. "Well, I still don't believe he's out to harm me. He's been here for a couple weeks and hasn't asked anything."

"He could be planting bugs," Donatello said, still trying to discourage her from allowing this kid into her store. "He knows we come here, the most likely place we would talk to you is the basement, so he might have just wanted access there. He wouldn't have to ask you questions about us, he could just listen in on our conversations. There are many things he could do that wouldn't involve making himself look suspicious by asking the wrong questions or obviously poking around! Come on, April, you have to see that he's too much of a hazard to keep around!"

"I'm not going to fire him, I just gave him a job. Just give him a chance, you guys." She looked at their stony expressions. "Would it make you feel better to check out downstairs to see it's not bugged? I'll even let you keep an eye on him when he works here. You know, to make sure he isn't doing anything dangerous."

_That_ could be useful. "Fine. We'll do that." He ignored Donatello's surprised look. "What time does he work here?"

She folded her arms. "You aren't going to be mean to him, though, right? Just keep an eye on him, but don't treat him like you did when you dragged him up the stairs. You don't have to like him, but don't be jerks to him because of your suspicions."

Leonardo saw Donatello staring at him questioningly out of the corner of his eye, but didn't glance back. April was watching him closely, waiting for his confirmation. "No," he said, knowing that what he was saying was a complete lie. He felt guilty about that, since April felt like their word was worth trusting, but he didn't allow himself to show any hesitation in his response, nothing that would make his words seem anything other than truthful.

April nodded. "All right. Good. I'll give you the schedule. And who knows, maybe you'll warm up to him?" She sounded dubiously hopeful about this, but the hope was there nonetheless. The kid had clearly done a good job getting into her good graces, despite having broken into her basement once upon a time. But then, April wasn't too hard to win over, when children were involved.

Rather than responding to her ludicrous comment, he gave a close-lipped smile. She could just keep on wishing that, for now. No point being disrespectful by pointing out the impossibility of it.

Donatello, seeing that this discussion, at least, was over, started to engage April in a conversation about the antiques she was working on refurbishing now. The conversation turned to lighter matters, but Leonardo couldn't bring himself to engage in it as much as he usually did. His mind was occupied with much more solemn thoughts.

* * *

"So, what are we going to do about him?" Donatello asked. They were sitting at the kitchen table, back at home, going over the new situation. His brother's arms were folded in front of them, his right hand closed tightly over his left wrist in a subconscious nervous gesture of his. He obviously wasn't comfortable with the conversation they were about to have.

He was right to worry- after the warnings they'd given Steve, most of them physical and violent, he was still poking around their territory. If they'd been dealing with an adult, he'd have been dead twice over by now. Interfering with April was the last straw.

The problem was, his position as her employee made things difficult. They couldn't be overtly hostile where April could hear or see them. They couldn't be too violent towards him, because April would notice that they'd done something…and also because neither of them really wanted to take it to a level of permanent harm or even severe injuries. Their verbal warnings, however, had fallen on deaf ears. Still.

"We can't allow him to work there," he said. "He's too close to her, and I don't think she'll be on her guard enough. Right in the building with her is enough to cause serious harm if he gets orders to bring in a bomb, or even if he's to capture her- she wouldn't think of him bringing a gun or knockout gas. She's never had the experience we've had. We shouldn't have expected her to understand completely."

Donatello frowned, his eyes distant as he examined thoughts of his own. "So what do we do, then? It's obviously pointless to just- saunter down there and ask him nicely and politely to leave. It's even pointless to threaten him at this point, because clearly it doesn't work."

"Threatening him doesn't work because we keep on threatening to end him and not backing it up. Not that I think we _should_,' he amended, seeing Donatello startle, "But a spy would have it figured out by now that we won't really do it, especially when the people managing him have been telling stories about us being merciful. It's not like it's a secret that we're softer on kids."

"All right. So we can't just threaten him out like before, and if we scare him too badly, he'll just run upstairs and we'll answer to April." Donatello looked frustrated. "So what do we do, then? We can't keep an eye on him forever. For all we know, he is there to distract us while something more pressing is going on- and we know something more pressing _is_ going on, with that EPF-funded project being set up in our territory. I don't want to waste too much time on this kid if he's just a wild goose chase."

"But we can't chance him being a real threat." Leonardo frowned, his mouth a tight, worried slash. "We'll have to drive him out. But not by scaring the daylights out of him, not this time. You're right, he'll obviously flee and April will put an end to it. We'll just have to make it very unpleasant for him to stay. If we harass him long enough, he'll probably leave. He doesn't seem like he has a lot of endurance for anxiety, not with the way he shakes and starts stuttering every time he sees us."

"You mean we should just…bully him until he leaves?" Donatello said, his expression showing the distaste he felt about that idea. "What are we going to do? Stuff his head in a convenient locker?"

"Do you have any better ideas?" he asked, heatedly. "I don't like it either. I've never liked going against kids, I don't like being dishonest to April, but what choice do we have? We could just leave him there and hope he's not the threat he appears to be, but do you want to take that chance?"

Donatello shook his head, but his expression showed that he wasn't completely on board with the idea. "No, I don't want to risk it. But how are we going to harass him? We've done our fair share of mild damage to him; dragging him up stairs, pushing him into walls, frightening him. You put a sword to his throat and it didn't deter him. I'm not sure he'll want to leave just because we…called him a few names, or whatever it is you intend on doing." The reasonable tone didn't entirely hide his trepidation. He didn't want to agree to do this, even if he saw that it made sense.

Still, it was a fair question. He thought about the response for a moment.

"It'll be more sustained than just incidental threats, for one thing. Harassing him every day, every time he comes down there should be more than a little wearying for him. His age is a benefit for us there, teenagers aren't as equipped to deal with stress." Leonardo explained. "Also, threatening him was effective enough to keep him from coming back to the sewers," he said. "He just fled from location to location. It shouldn't be too hard to chase him out of a job he doesn't even want to have. It's not that he was undeterred, he just chose to go somewhere else once we removed him from the sewers. And when we chase him out of the store, there's nowhere left for him to go. Our only other allies are the Foot, and he wouldn't even be able to get through the front door. " he smiled coldly at the thought of a spy of his dubious caliber trying to infiltrate ninja headquarters. "Hopefully he'll be smart enough not to try that."

"I wouldn't hold your breath on that," muttered Donatello. "Learning doesn't seem to be his forte."

"We don't have to push too hard, Don," Leonardo said, seeing his hesitation, "I'm not saying we should break his arm. Just make it hard for him to work there. He shouldn't be there anyway, and while he is working at the store, he is up to no good. He's a liability."

Grim resolution settled in his brother's gaze. "Fine. You're right. I know you're right," he looked away. "I just…don't like it."

"I know." Neither of them liked the fact that just trying to live a life meant that they had to bend some of their principles. He released a breath, more of a short expulsion of tension than a sigh. Couldn't those bastards at the EPF just, for once in their miserable, murdering lives, leave the two of them be? They'd killed almost half of their family and torn the rest of them apart. An isolated life was all they asked for, and now they couldn't even have that. "It's not that I like it. It just has to be done."

He looked at his brother. "You don't have to do it, Don. If you want, you can just stay home and sleep in. I'll be adjusting my sleep schedule to be able to be there for the kid's work hours anyway. It's not like we need to both be there to get the job done." It wasn't like it was going to be very difficult to shove a kid around, after all. Not physically difficult.

Donatello shook his head. "Not a chance. If you're going, I'm going. It's not fair of me to expect you to take up the burden, and you shouldn't feel the need to offer for my sake. Besides, it shouldn't take too long, in any case."

"Hopefully not," he said.

"Right," Donatello snorted without any real amusement "Since when has real life ever given way for our hopes?" he shook his head and stood up to leave, angled towards his computer station where he was undoubtedly going to try and shut out the world for a few hours. The situation they were headed towards had killed any humor he might have tried at his brother's expense. Levity seemed inappropriate right now.

"We'll give him a warning before we start," Leonardo said, still trying to be reassuring. He knew Donatello hated this. "Give him a chance to leave." It was a feeble attempt and he knew it, but it was important to make the effort, anyway.

Apparently, his brother knew it, too. "Right," Donatello said, his mouth twisting into a wry, sardonic smile. "Well. We know how well those have worked on him."

He couldn't think of a response to that, at least not the response that Donatello wanted. He stayed silent. There was nothing left to say.

His mouth pulled into a worried frown, Donatello left to play his video games, leaving Leonardo sitting alone at the table. He kept quiet, thinking about what was to come. Planning. It wasn't going to be much fun for the next few weeks for them. Let his brother shut it out now, while he could.


	14. things fall apart

**Ouroboros Complex**

**Chapter Thirteen**: _things fall apart_

* * *

_I know a cold as cold as it gets_

_I know a darkness that's darker than cold_

_a wind that blows as cold as it gets_

_blew out the light in my soul _

"**Cold as it Gets," Patty Griffin**

* * *

The stroke didn't last very long, speaking objectively. Actually, it was about fifteen minutes long, give or take- minutes that felt like they stretched on into hours, minutes that felt like seconds or less when they rushed to look up symptoms and treatment, when Donatello was trying to get Splinter to relax while their father lay helpless and prone on the floor. Fifteen minutes until his condition seemed to get better and they felt desperately for a heartbeat, relaxing only when they managed to sense one was there.

Enough time for them to get a taste of how it would feel to have their father die in front of them, something that had always been likely but never had been so very close. They had to fight not to crowd him when it was clear the worst of it was over. Hard to be mindful of his need to breathe when they had their own need for reassurance. Leonardo and Raphael settled for watching on the sidelines as Donatello, grim-faced and tight-lipped, measured their father's pulse and looked at his pupil dilation with a small penlight. Finally, he stood up and moved towards his brothers.

"Well?" Raphael asked from his spot in the sidelines. "Did you figure it out yet?"

The question itself was phrased in a way that ground Donatello's teeth, but with concern and tension written all over the tone. Not sarcasm, or impatient accusation. He kept that in mind and fought down the urge to snap at him. It wasn't Raphael's fault he was impatient about this, it wasn't his fault that his fear and worry were overriding his ability to think, or even that he was a clumsy communicator. It was just, none of that made this any easier and it was horrible enough that he had to do this without his brother's expectations sitting heavy on his shoulders.

"I'm not a doctor," he said, keeping his tone precise, "But I think this was definitely a stroke." His voice wobbled on the edge of tension. Donatello could manage precision right now, but calm was too far away from what he felt to maintain.

Raphael snorted. "Well, yeah. We figured that, Donny." Not as casual as it sounded, not when his voice was trembling. "But how bad is it? Is he gonna- is he…?"

_I don't know. _The words wouldn't even leave Donatello's mouth. He swallowed sharply. Splinter was breathing long, even, shaking breaths. "A stroke is a cerebrovascular accident," he said, numbly. He sounded numb, at least to _his_ ears. He sounded a hundred miles away. Or years. "It's- it's caused by blood flow in the brain being blocked, or by internal hemorrhaging. I don't- I can't find out which one it is, Raph. I don't have the equipment. And even if I did…"

"So what the hell does that mean? We're gonna have to just watch him die?" Raphael's hands were balled into fists, like he was itching for a fight. Maybe he was, since punching his anger out was usually the way he chose to go about managing his emotions. He let out a string of curses and swiveled around.

"What do you want me to do, Raph?" Donatello hissed, his own anger rising, fueled by his helplessness. "Do you have any idea how to treat a stroke? Why should I know any better? I'd need tools, machines…"

"We can go get 'em," Raphael snapped, his eyes flashing in a kind on insane determination that Donatello recognized from their more desperate battles.

"And then what?" he asked, each word coming out clipped and precise. "Kidnap people who know how to work them? I'd need a better understanding of neuroscience than what I know now! Not to mention how different Splinter's reactions are from a human having a stroke. I have no clue what I'm doing. I'm not a doctor. It's possible any attempt I make to save him could end up killing him."

He drew in a breath, feeling shaky. "So, yes," he added, glaring at him. "Yes, we might have to just- watch him, Raph! He might die tonight, and I can't do anything! Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Raphael shoved him, hard. "Don't you fucking say that!" he yelled, but sounded more desperate than furious. "What the hell is wrong with you, Donny? Don't you _want_-"

"Raphael," Splinter managed to say, before Donatello could unleash his own rage at what Raphael was about to accuse him of. He cringed at the reminder that Splinter had been listening to his own death prediction and looked at the floor, suddenly aware of his own shaking hands. Despite the slurring of his father's speech, the stern reprimand in his tone managed to carry through. They all fell silent, watching him struggle for clarity.

"My sons. The two of you…should not fight." He tried to sit up, and Leonardo grabbed his shoulder to help him into an upright position, leaning him against the couch and watching the both of them with a warning expression. As if they needed any warning not to upset their father further.

"I will not have this family- fall apart," Splinter said, slowly. "I will not have my," he paused, struggling, "I will not have my…_condition_…used as an excuse for your anger towards each other."

"Donny's right, Raph," Leonardo said, quietly. "There's nothing we can do now but wait." His words were calm enough, but the ultra-controlled quality of his voice and the way his entire posture screamed tension showed that he was feeling anything but patient right now. His hands, resting on the arm of their couch, tightened their grip. "Don. Is there… anything we need to do now?"

His own voice, when he spoke, sounded washed bare of emotion. "Not much. Get him a dose of aspirin. It helps prevent blood clots forming in the brain." He probably didn't need to add the second part, given the expressions on his brother's faces, but he wasn't feeling up to entirely filtering his speech tonight. "Aside from that, make him comfortable." There was so little they could do to help. It made him feel like screaming, but of course he had to stay silent.

Leonardo went to the kitchen to retrieve the medication, and Donatello watched Splinter in the meantime. He wouldn't be able to discern anything outwardly, of course, but he inspected him anyway, taking note of his quiet, slow breathing and his half-closed eyes. For a moment he wondered how any of them would sleep tonight, when it seemed so possible that if they closed their eyes, they'd wake the next moment to their father passing away.

"Really, this was just- this was just a transient ischemic attack," he said slowly, to no one in particular, "Recuperation is much more likely, although it might set up potential for strokes in the future. This one should be- it shouldn't be something fatal."

Splinter nodded, acknowledging the words, and Leonardo gave him the pills with a cup of water that shook, slightly, in his brother's usually steady hand. His older brother looked just that- older, burdened down with something weightier than simply time. He wondered if that's what they all looked like now. If they all looked that weary.

"You should rest, Master Splinter," he said. "Sleep is an important part of recovery." In fact, sleep disorders were common among stroke patients, so the more sleep he had, the better. And quite aside from its healing and restorative benefits, it would give them the opportunity to talk, something they weren't about to do with their father able to hear every word.

Getting him to his room that night seemed like a lost cause, so they helped him up onto the couch instead. Splinter lay there peacefully enough, but his eyelids flickered restlessly, showing the tension he must be feeling. Watching him slip into sleep was suddenly too much like watching another death, so Donatello turned sharply away, leaving his two brothers to watch over their father.

The kitchen seemed like a nice, likely place to have a small emotional breakdown. As he stood there, he had the distant feeling that he should make something to drink, like tea. Leonardo would, if he was sitting alone in the kitchen trapped on all sides by the possible mortality of their father. But that had never been his go-to comfort beverage, and besides, he didn't need any caffeine.

He especially didn't need anything so heavily imbued with childhood memories of Splinter standing by the teapot, watching as it brewed. He didn't need the taste of sadness and illness in his mouth, forcing him even closer to an emotional display.

There wasn't any sense in pacing, and besides, he'd never been the type, so he just pulled out a chair and sat. He clenched his hands together tightly and felt his whole body tense, his muscles drew taut to the point the felt they would break, his stomach turned, and something hard and choking worked its way up his throat and stayed there.

Trying to breathe just made it worse, the unrelenting tension in his body wouldn't let go, or allow itself to be shed through tears. He wasn't crying. He couldn't, even though he felt he would get some relief from it, all the emotion he felt was locked in so tight.

Tentatively, someone said his name. "Donny?"

Raphael's voice. He couldn't bring himself to turn around, but his shoulders stiffened at the intrusion into his momentary peace and quiet.

The lot of them had learned to move soundlessly long ago, so he didn't exactly _hear _Raphael moving up behind him. A prickle started at the back of his neck and moved down his spine in a shiver, an instinctive reaction to the thought of someone, anyone moving behind him. He supposed his brothers had the same sense of danger too, something trained in them, not through Master Splinter's lessons, but through first-hand experience with all the violence their lives had thrown at them.

Slight movement at the corner of his eye told him his brother was at his right shoulder, close enough to be at arm's reach, but not close enough to be considered 'close'. "Donny, I'm sorry." Raphael sounded as strained as he was right now, but also very regretful. "I- I know you're just sayin' the truth. I shouldn't have even _thought _you weren't doin' everything you could, I especially shouldn't have almost…said it like that."

"Don't worry about it," he said, quietly. He didn't say '_no problem', _or '_that's okay_', because it wasn't true at all, and they mostly stayed honest with each other. It wasn't at all okay that Raphael thought even for a minute, or half a second, that he didn't care enough to save their father, or that he didn't want him alive enough to put his full effort into it.

Raphael must have read that into his tone or his words, because he drew a little nearer to him. Still didn't try to touch him, which might just have meant he was afraid that Donatello would pull away. At the moment, he wasn't sure if he would or not.

"Christ, Donny. I don't- I don't _mean_ to say the crap I do." Raphael said, miserably. "I just get so… mad." Now he sounded tired. "I get so damn angry all the time, and I shouldn't- I shouldn't take it out on you. This is just…"

He trailed off and Donatello glanced at him. Raphael was leaning forward, both hands over his face like he was crying, but his breathing was regular and his voice wasn't teary. His brother sighed like something inside was tearing at him. "..Shit. It's too much. You know? An' I used to think it was bad before. I used to think I was angry all the time then. I can't get a _break_ from it now, Donny. I can't even rest from it. I figure if I could stop bein' so goddamn angry I can just get through it somehow, but…"

A harsh intake of breath told him that Raphael was just on the edge of tears, if not there already. Donatello had never been as wildly emotional as his brother. He figured none of them shared the sheer capacity for emotion that Raphael had; sometimes an enviable trait, but now it must be a heavy burden.

As for himself he felt cold, hollowed out, as though someone had literally pulled everything he felt from him and left him empty and thin. It was a coping mechanism, he rationalized, a distant part of him cataloguing his response, and sooner or later he was going to come hurtling face to face with his sense of loss and just-

He didn't know what he'd do.

"Alright," he said, turning to face him, "I know you don't mean it. I'm just…tired." He meant that. At a time like this, he began to appreciate how Leonardo must feel as the appointed leader, with everything weighing on his decisions. Donatello wasn't raised for that, he wasn't comfortable with it, and he was the only one out of the four of them- the _three_ of them, he realized with a jarring shock of pain, that had the medical knowledge to help. Not the expertise or capability, without which he was severely limited. For a moment he entertained the horrible, mad thought of kidnapping someone to help his father. It wouldn't work, and they'd never be able to reconcile themselves to it anyway, but he planned it out in his mind in any case.

"Splinter's sleeping." Leonardo stood in the open area in front of the kitchen. He looked as lost as the two of them. None of them were as stable as they could be lately, especially not when the ground kept getting pulled out from under their feet like this.

"That's a good sign," he said, feeling like an idiot. He didn't even know if it really was, since he had only the most rudimentary knowledge of strokes. Presumably sleep was important for healing, so maybe it actually was. "How did he seem before he fell asleep? Was he coherent?"

Leonardo shrugged. "Coherent enough. He didn't seem confused or anything, like you get with concussions. His speech is still slurred," he added, quietly.

"That's normal," he said, almost tonelessly. Donatello felt like he wanted to stand up and throw the table against the wall or scream, just do something to break the surreal calm of this scene, of them serenely discussing their father's stroke as if it was a minor illness. He inhaled slowly, willing the feeling to go away. "We'll have to watch him closely for the next week," he continued. _If he even wakes up_, his mind added, an unnecessarily cynical note.

He felt a pang of hunger and it seemed so out of place that he wondered what it was for a moment. The clock on the wall told him it was nearing dinner time. A small part of him wondered at his body's ability to still be hungry despite all of the wreckage his life kept throwing at him.

Apparently, Leonardo had followed his gaze to the clock because the next comment out of his mouth was: "I suppose we should have something to eat. No point in starving ourselves out of worry."

They both looked at him in mute disbelief at that statement because who could even eat right now? And also because that comment sounded eerily parental. Maternal, even, Donatello thought. At any other time, it would have prompted some kind of joke at his brother's expense. Now, it was more of a reminder that their actual parental figure was incapacitated.

Leonardo frowned at their blank stares. "What?"

"Really?" Raphael asked, sounding sarcastically incredulous. "You really want us to eat something right now, at a time like this." He glanced over at Donatello, indicating with his expression that their brother was clearly mad and wasting his time on a lost cause.

"I guess you could just pointlessly go hungry," Leonardo muttered, turning away to examine the cabinets for food items. "Because that would be _really_ helpful right now. It's not like you're going to help anyone by not eating, Raph. And don't even try to tell me you're not hungry." He pulled out a container of rice and set it on the counter top. "I'll cook."

At that proclamation, Donatello quickly stood up. "You know what, no, that's fine. I'll do it." It was partially a joking comment, his brother's bland cooking was often the subject of teasing. Also, the situation wasn't so dire that they had to resort to Leonardo's cooking. Not that they were likely to taste anything right now anyway, but at least he knew how to use seasoning that wasn't just salt and pepper.

"Not this again," Leonardo said, narrowing his eyes. "You know I can cook."

That sounded so un-amused that he quickly tried to switch tones. "Well, _yes,_" he hedged, glancing at Raphael, who was rolling his eyes, "I mean, I know you're certainly capable of performing that task, I just…think…"

"I thought you _wanted _us to eat tonight," Raphael said in a sullen undertone. Unlike Donatello, he didn't sound like he was joking about it.

They both turned to look at Raphael; Donatello with an expression of mute helplessness and Leonardo with an expression that was on the very low end of murderous rage. Or mild irritation. Either their many jabs at his culinary skill over the years had finally made an impact or he really wasn't in the mood to take them at this point in time. Donatello held his breath for a moment as Leonardo glared at the both of them.

"Fine," he snarled, "I'm not in the mood for this. Go ahead and do it yourselves."

"Leo," he said, trying to be conciliatory, but his brother just waved his hand dismissively and left the kitchen. He must have been on the high point of stressed out for his reaction to be that extreme, Leonardo was typically level-headed, or forced himself into it enough to seem as though he was. Everyone was getting scraped thin at this point.

Accusingly, Donatello turned his gaze back to Raphael and gestured sharply at their brother's retreating shell- a very clearly communicated _look what you did._

Raphael shifted guiltily, a frown pulling sharply at his features. Aside from the slight fidget, he looked unrepentant. "You got something to say, just say it."

"He was just trying to help, Raph," Donatello muttered. "You didn't have to be an ass about it. Are you just trying to piss everyone off tonight?"

"What, really?" Raphael rolled his eyes, incredulous, "Look, all I did was insult his cooking. If that's bad enough for him to go storming out of the kitchen, _he's_ the one who needs an attitude adjustment, not me. And who's he to go around ordering us to have dinner like he's everyone's mom, anyway? Ticks me off." He folded his arms., the defensive body language projecting loud and clear that no one was getting anything reasonable out of him tonight, either.

He tried, anyway. "You're annoyed at him because he came in here with a sensible request?" Donatello looked at the rice, trying to decide if he wanted to make something with rice in it or if he should just put it all back and make something canned for everyone. Then Leonardo would probably say something snide about cooking skills and he would lose some of the tenuous grasp he was maintaining on his own temper.

"Course not," Raphael snorted. "I mean- I _get_ why he wants us to eat something. I ain't dumb. I even get why we should be hungry. I'm just not. Can't see how he is either. And I hate how he puts on this…this 'I'm an adult' attitude. So goddamn condescending."

Great. That was his 'no signs of intelligent life, captain' tone of voice, the kind he used when Raphael was too wrapped up in his own troubles at the moment to watch his temper. Rummaging through the pantry, he briefly wondered if he should continue or just allow Raphael to think about it and have it sink in on its own. Explaining was faster, so he went forward. That, and Leonardo deserved a break, too.

"You know it's not really about us eating tonight. He just probably wants to focus on…something else for a while." Donatello went for a chopping knife, finally deciding on stir fry. That was easy enough to make without having to worry about much preparation. It also was involved enough to let him take his own mind off the troubles of the moment just the slightest bit- like Leonardo had probably wanted before being aggravated out of the kitchen.

"He has a lot on his mind right now," he continued.

"Like we don't," Raphael muttered, but without any bite to it. It seemed as though his conscience was catching up with him on this issue.

"We all do," he agreed, quietly. "But think about what Leo _is_. Think about what he's been raised to be. If anything-" he faltered, not wanting to put the possibility of another family member's death into words. Their father was their stability, their foundation, and the prospect of his possible collapse was too much to deal with right now. "If anything…happened to Splinter, think about what he'll need to do. I wouldn't want that kind of responsibility. And you wouldn't either."

Despite the occasional friction between his two brothers, he knew Raphael didn't actually want to _lead _the family. He was more interested in autonomy than the responsibilities that came with leadership, even though he might sometimes want to lead. After Leonardo's brush with a breakdown at fifteen, Donatello had put more thought into how much psychological weight was resting on his brother's metaphorical shoulders, and came away a bit overwhelmed by the thought of having that much pressure on it himself. Michelangelo had put it very insightfully himself: the reason the rest of them could relax and goof off occasionally was because so much of the responsibility was placed in their older brother's hands.

"Nothing's gonna happen," Raphael growled, but the uncertainty in his tone gave him away. "He's fine now, right? He's resting, he was talking. Splinter's not gonna…" he trailed off, swallowed hard.

Donatello struggled with his own surge of fear, which this conversation was not helping to quell. Unlike Raphael, he had a wealth of medical knowledge, and he knew what might be happening right now. He thought, sickened, of what might happen if it had been hemorrhaging to cause the attack. After the aspirin he'd prescribed, the bleeding would only worsen, possibly cause their father to just slip away in his sleep. Or an embolism, worse than he'd thought, causing a larger, more catastrophic stroke.

Looking back on this moment, he'd think: they were just kids, and their family was falling apart around them, dying one by one. He was tying himself to the present just by sitting in the kitchen, stirring vegetables around in a pan. He'd been building stability by seconds.

At the time, he didn't feel seventeen. None of them did.

What he _wanted _to say was something reassuring and most likely false, something that would help his brother relax so at least one of them wouldn't be strung tight and stressed out to the point of almost breaking. What actually came out of his mouth was not at all comforting.

"I don't know what's going to happen," he said. He was speaking, but the pressure in his chest and the tightening of his throat made him feel like he'd been crying, like pained sounds had spilled from his mouth instead of words. "I don't know," he repeated, fixing his gaze on the floor. "I think…we shouldn't think about it right now. Not when we can't do anything to fix it, whether we wanted to or not. Raph, if you're going to be hostile, if that's what you need to do…"

"Donny," Raphael said, softly, remorseful.

He rode right over that statement, fingers clenching into fists- not angry, but resolute. "If that's how you need to cope, then go on and do it. But please, hit your punching bag, hit the couch, do what Casey does and start breaking the furniture, but don't be mad at _me, _or at _Leo-_"

"Al_right_, Donny," Raphael said, riding over his statement, and Donatello startled when he realized that his voice had begun to raise and his hands were shaking a bit from a quick adrenaline rush. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just- can't handle this like the two of you, I guess. You're right, I shouldn't be takin' it out on you."

His brother sounded tired now, like so much emotion was wearying for him. Maybe it was. The three of them hadn't had much sleep in the past few days.

"Just…talk to Leo, okay?" he asked, taking up the knife again and mentally going over what vegetables they likely had in the fridge. "We've been through too much to take it out on each other." He turned to open the fridge and when he turned back from hauling out the contents of the crisper: carrots, onions, small stalk of cauliflower, broccoli, Raphael had already trailed silently out of the kitchen. He hoped he'd gone to see how Leonardo was doing, but the way things were going lately he could just as easily have wandered off to beat up a wall and break his knuckles for good.

Everything on the main level of their home was open for view, so he could peer out of their kitchen and see the couch at an angle, a fragmented glance of his father's head and robe lying across it. He couldn't see movement, but he wasn't close enough to catch the minute motions of sleep. One of the television screens flickered light blue, and he caught a glimpse of one of his brothers in profile, watching Splinter sleep. Probably Leonardo.

Lost in his thoughts, he measured the rice. Remembered to use less this time, just like they'd all had to every night since the failed rescue. One less mouth to feed. Would he have to measure more cups out, soon? Would he have to sit at another, even more maddeningly silent dinner, faced with empty seats? His hand shook, holding the measuring cup over the pot on the stove, sending loose grains tumbling into the water before he remembered he hadn't set it to boil yet.

Cursing, he set the cup down on the counter with a loud click and turned away, his hands still trembling as the stress finally started to catch up to him. He just managed to settle himself into one of the wooden chairs around the table when the bulk of it hit him, ran into him with the unmerciful force of a tidal wave. His throat tightened, almost choking him with the suddenness, prickling with the need to cry.

Donatello's thoughts raced- they did usually, he thought swiftly on many tracks, but now they just repeated ugly echoes in a swift, repetitive sequence. They flashed images at him: his father's hands curled up, almost clawlike, writhing on the floor, florescent light staining every inch of a steel-fitted torture chamber, a gurney, his father's saddened eyes. He couldn't shove the thoughts away or bury the images into some deep recess of his subconscious, they came as mercilessly as blows from an enemy's fist.

"Pull yourself together," he whispered- almost a gasp. The prickle in his throat found its way into his voice, making it sound ragged, worn through. At least both of his brothers were out of the kitchen, he thought. Donatello couldn't help but think it was selfish of him to break down right now, now when Splinter had just gone through his own attack and they were all so shaky. The last thing they needed was any of them having a panic attack.

Logic was easy enough to think about, but applying it was the real problem. Stay calm. How could anyone stay calm now? He drew in a sharp breath, trying to steady himself, curling his fingers tightly against the counter.

_What if he dies what if he dies what if he dies _his thoughts sent scurrying across his mind like terrified mice, panicked, helpless. Seeing Michelangelo in pieces was bad enough, but how horrible to wake up to his father lying stiffly on the couch, rigor mortis setting in, his hands curled and eyes empty? His stomach turned and he shook his head in a swift, desperate gesture. _Oh, god. _He wasn't a medical doctor, he just had the most technical knowledge, but that was enough in his brothers' eyes to make him almost the de facto nurse. He couldn't fix this, he couldn't stop internal bleeding, couldn't heal brain damage if it occurred. Couldn't slow down the deterioration, if it occurred. _They'll blame me what if they think I failed._

He was repeating himself now, in his thoughts, but he didn't care. Donatello hadn't realized it, but his breath had begun to come in shorter bursts, nearly hyperventilation. It was a wonder the counter didn't give under the pressure of his fingertips. They were all strong enough to damage the furniture and had certainly done so before. Not that they would get in trouble for it now. Now that-

His vision blurred.

This was just hitting him too hard, too quickly. He used to be pretty good at compartmentalization, now all the neat little spaces were just falling apart. The constriction in his throat had started almost burning, like there was a hot coal down there searing tender skin. Donatello swallowed convulsively and tried again to focus on this stupid, simple cooking task. Boil the water, turn the stove on, put the rice in. A routine.

The water was boiling when Leonardo entered the kitchen, annoyance stamped across his face and impatience in his tone. "Don, have you finished cooking dinner yet? Your obviously superior kitchen skills are-" he cut himself off mid-sentence, just staring at him. Which was just fine, since Donatello didn't feel like hearing the undoubtedly scathing remark at the end of that statement.

He had no idea what his expression was like right now, but it must have been pretty horrible for Leonardo to be looking at him like that. Still, if he looked half as bad as he felt, it was certainly warranted.

His sense of calm finally broke when the first cup of rice had gone spilling in a hopeless arc across the floor, grains crunching slightly under his bare feet. That was it, one small calamity and it ruined the careful balance he'd managed to keep going. The hopelessness of the whole scenario had finally gone crashing down on his shoulders: the quickly crumbling stability of their life, the death he hadn't even accepted yet, and the potential for more just lying there on the couch.

For a while, his thoughts were nonsense, fragments and shards of past and potential future. His hands shook, useless at trying to brush the rice into a manageable pile, nothing in their life was manageable. While his mind sent desperate flashes of _mikey, splinter _at him, his unsteady hands searched for a broom he couldn't find. It didn't help, his own traitorous brain flung grief at him in handfuls until he sat at a chair, overcome with it. Moments like this were the worst, and they almost always happened alone. He could have driven it off if Raphael had been in there, distracting him with his loudness and immediacy, or Leonardo with the sense of solidity he could give. But not alone.

Really, it was better he was being found out.

The whole damn place felt off-kilter, like the floor was at an angle and the walls had caved in. "I spilled the rice," he told Leonardo, and his voice sounded _horrible,_ dry and choked-off. It wasn't about the rice at all and he knew it.

Something more painful and personal than sympathy was in his brother's eyes. "Oh, Donnie…" he sighed, coming closer, hesitantly laying a hand on his upper arm. Leonardo was not often physically affectionate, the most reserved of his brothers, and right now it was patently clear that he only had half a clue of what he was doing. He didn't even pat him on the arm, just lay his hand there as though he was trying to keep him steady, and Donatello focused on the warmth there for a moment before finally letting the tears loose.


End file.
